


Thanatos Denied

by UrgentOrange



Category: Call of Duty, MW (2009), modern warfare, mw2, mw3
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 122,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrgentOrange/pseuds/UrgentOrange
Summary: *MW3 AU* After their nearly fatal encounter with Shepherd, Soap and Price are forced to lie low in Afghanistan, but soon find themselves on the run from former allies.





	1. Blood on the Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Plenty of violence and drug use in this one - for mature readers. There are also some references to my beta Sassy Satsuma's work, Caught in the System. :-) I'm forever grateful to Sass -- I couldn't have done it without her!
> 
> Begun in 2011, the story is up to date on FF.net, and is almost complete. In the meantime I wanted to give Ao3 a try and see how it goes...
> 
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6689064/1/Thanatos-Denied
> 
> I should point out that I also had beta help over the years from Verity, Lisbet Adair and SmashInterrupted. Thanks to everyone who helped, followed, favorited and reviewed.
> 
> As of December 2017, TD is nearing completion! Story updates and notes can be found on urgentorange.tumblr.com
> 
> My other stories are posted on Fanfiction.net.

**Thanatos** **\tha-nə-** **ˌ** **täs\**

**1\. The Greek personification of death.**

**2\. Sigmund Freud's "death drive" - the human pursuit of self-destruction**

* * *

The winds of the sandstorm were dying down. Fine powdery dust spun and settled on everything: the rusty beams, pipes and decrepit tin buildings of the oil yard; the overturned zodiac at the riverbank, the smoldering wreckage of the helicopter, the abandoned pickup truck, and the bodies of several men.

Captain John Price's head spun when he attempted to open his eyes, so he immediately screwed them shut again. His next breath became a coughing fit until he retched, every spasm punishing him further with intense pain in his side. As if that weren't enough, various other injuries made themselves known to him, chiming into a chorus of misery.

Opening his eyes again, he saw that the weight pressing across his body like an iron bar was the dead man's leg, which he flung away in disgust. _Bastard._ Strange, he didn't remember killing General Shepherd ... he remembered being on the losing end of the fight, but nothing else.

With a groan, he rolled over onto his hands and knees. He rested his head on his folded arms, gingerly breathing through the pain, waiting for the spinning to stop. When he looked up, the distant form of Captain John "Soap" MacTavish came into focus.

Awareness returned in a cold rush of uncertainty. MacTavish lay on his back, unnaturally still, marking the end of a spattered red trail in the sand. Blood covered his face and soaked the front of his jacket.

"Soap?" Price rasped from a dry throat, extending a wavering hand. His pain forgotten, he staggered to his feet and rushed to MacTavish's side, reeling from a fresh wave of dizziness. "Soap!" he shouted, stumbling to his knees. Half-open eyes sluggishly followed the movement, then drifted shut. Price's own heart was pounding as he jabbed two fingers into MacTavish's neck, finding a rapid pulse.

Simply put, Soap was a mess. An angry-looking, lacerated knot was welling up over his eyebrow. One eye was red and swollen. Blood streamed from his nose, which appeared to be broken. Price knew he had yet to see the worst of it. He peeled aside the bloody layers of chest rig, jacket and shirt to reveal the oozing stab wound just below Soap's ribcage.

He rummaged through his waist bag. Fumbling in his haste, he tore open a packet of Combat Gauze. Packing it into the deep wound and applying pressure, he noticed that Soap's abdomen felt rigid to the touch.

_Shit._

Seeing the bloodstains on Soap's gloves, he realized the origin of the knife currently sticking out of Shepherd's eye. _The stubborn bugger!_ He huffed, flashing a brief grin and shaking his head at Soap's tenacity. He couldn't help himself.

It reminded him of the moment in the Credenhill Camp, over five years ago, when he'd first met the young Scot with the icy blue eyes and the dark mohawk. It had been MacTavish's first official day in the Regiment. After a quick sizing-up, Price had offered a scornful glare and a typical greeting: _"What kind of a name is Soap, eh? How'd a muppet like you pass Selection?"_

A few days ago in Petropavlovsk, he couldn't have been happier to see anyone else.

With increasing alarm, he noted both the warm red stain spreading on the gauze and the coolness of the pale skin beneath his hands. Soap needed a drip in him, but with his minimal first aid kit, Price could do little for the blood loss. MacTavish's face tightened, clenched jaws stifling gasps of pain into muffled grunts. He began a semiconscious effort to fight Price, batting at him, trying to push away the hands that were hurting him.

"Stop it, Soap! I have to do this, I'm sorry. Stop!" Price grappled with MacTavish's flailing hands while trying to keep one of his own firmly on the gauze. "Soap, you're bleeding – I have to keep the pressure on. I know it hurts." A guttural cry tore into the empty surroundings. "I know." The moments that passed, while Soap moaned and writhed in response to his ministrations, felt like an eternity. Long enough to make Price wonder why he was even putting him through this. All he was doing was delaying the inevitable. They were stuck in the middle of a desolate sandy nowhere, with no help in sight, the only remaining members of their team. Without an immediate casevac, Price would soon be the last, and probably not for long.

He fished out the autoinjector that he was carrying, glancing at the orange label. In Soap's current condition, it wasn't the best idea – if there were hope of rescue.

Now it would at least ease his passing.

Soap pulled on Price's wrist, trying to pry his hand away. For the moment, Price had to allow it. "Just hold on, I'm going to give you some morphine." He popped off the red safety cap.

His heart sank even further when he heard the beat of helicopter rotors in the distance. More Shadow Company boys coming to finish the job, no doubt. Like Price's own Taskforce 141, they'd been handpicked by Shepherd himself. Price didn't want to guess what they'd done to Roach and Ghost. All he knew was that the two surviving Taskforce members in the Caucasus were dead now because his warning had come too late.

So this was it, then. They'd shared such a moment before, thinking it was all over. Close, but it hadn't been their time yet. Now after Zakhaev, Makarov and everything else, this would be their end. At least Price had the cold satisfaction that they'd brought Shepherd to his.

He sucked in a sharp breath, ignoring the white-hot dagger of pain. The regret hurt far more. He clapped a hand on MacTavish's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. Saying goodbye.

The thumping grew louder. He lowered his head for a moment, closing his eyes. Another painful breath, a glance at the sky, then he pressed the purple end of the tube to Soap's thigh and thumbed the button. He kept it there for a few seconds, allowing the injector to empty itself into the muscle, then tossed it aside.

Soap's grip on him gradually loosened, the fingers of one hand still curled around Price's offending wrist, the other dropping back down onto the sand. Price hoped it meant the morphine was starting to take effect, though MacTavish's brow was still furrowed. His breathing was rapid and shallow, too fast for a man at rest. The continuous trickle of blood from his nose and forehead painted deep red streaks against pallid flesh. It was pooling around his right eye, and Price reached down to carefully wipe it away.

The noise was deafening now, thrumming in his chest. They were here. Price remained motionless, kneeling before his friend as if in prayer, one hand still resting on the bloody gauze, staring into space.

_Forgive me._

Their rifles and sidearms were long gone, lost in the river's swift current. Even if any bullets remained in Shepherd's revolver, it would be a symbolic gesture at best.

_The hell with 'em_. Price dug back into his pouch for more supplies, covering the sodden gauze with a fresh dressing. _Just make it quick, you bastards._ Having ceased his struggling, MacTavish stirred, roused by the thunderous vibration. Opening dull and unfocused eyes, he muttered something inaudible. Price taped down the dressing as tightly as he could, frowning at the result.

The shadow of the landing chopper floated into Price's peripheral vision. Flying grit blasted him. Shielding his eyes, he looked up and couldn't believe it – no dangling legs, no guns pointed at him - Nikolai? The skids hit the sand and the Russian pilot hopped from the cockpit, crouching beneath the still-whirling blades, his face dark with concern.

Price draped Soap's arm over his shoulder. "It'll hold for now, come on, get up."

He could feel Soap trembling as he hauled him up from the ground. Price was thankful that Nikolai hadn't listened when he'd said there would be no need for exfil. In his own style, he told him as much: "I thought I told you this was a one-way trip."

"Looks like it still is. They'll be looking for us, you know."

The pull on Price's shoulder increased with each unsteady step until Soap crumpled beneath him. Nikolai rushed forward, catching MacTavish just in time. Together, Price and Nikolai half-dragged him to the chopper.

"Nikolai – we've got to get Soap out of here."

" _Da._ I know a place."

They laid Soap out in the cramped back of the MH-6 Little Bird. He moaned at the manipulation, despite their efforts to be gentle. "Easy!" snapped Price. With a distressed look, Nikolai bit back his reply and pulled a dull green, silver-sided casualty blanket from the chopper's emergency kit. As they tucked it around Soap, Price exchanged concerned glances with Nikolai, who wasted no time in strapping himself in and spinning up the rotors.

Soap's weary eyes roamed the cabin ceiling until they found Price. He was trying to say something, mouthing Price's name, but the increasing whine of the engines drowned out any hope of conversation. Price leaned down to shout in his ear. "We're going to get you some help, you're going to be all right." Soap was slowly blinking, drifting away again. Price grabbed MacTavish's shoulder, regaining his attention with a sharp order. "Hey – stay with me!"

The sound grew to a roar. Nikolai pulled up on the chopper's collective and they lifted off. Through the doorway just beyond Soap's head, Price watched the oil yard shrink below them, until it rotated and drifted out of sight. The chopper picked up speed, the ground beneath them streaking past in a brown blur.

MacTavish's eyes were rolling back, blue fading into a bloody mask. Price jostled him. "Soap!" The commanding shout was lost in the wall of noise. Price shook him again, harder this time, Soap's head rocking with the motion as his eyes fluttered closed. Price's shoulders slumped, and he noticed the dark red stains on his own jacket. He looked down at his red sticky hands.

_Wherever it is, this place had better be close_.

* * *

They flew low, following the contour of the terrain as it rose into jagged mountains. The land was a sparsely vegetated, rocky moonscape. They passed over a few small villages that looked positively ancient. Price noticed the air growing cooler as they gained altitude, and he was becoming chilled in his wet clothing.

His chest felt tight. He wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but it felt like he had to work a little harder to breathe. He silently willed the chopper to fly faster, though he knew that Nikolai was already going as fast as he dared. Soap was deathly pale, and he hadn't stirred since takeoff. Price reached out to him. A weak pulse still fluttered beneath clammy skin.

At long last, Nikolai spoke some Russian into his headset. The Little Bird swooped between the mountains and settled down into the base of a deep bowl between the crags. Rock had been hewn from the base of the mountainside in order to create space enough for a helicopter to land.

Russian voices shouted over the thumping whine of the slowing rotors, as figures in long, baggy Afghan clothing surrounded the chopper. _Shemaghs_ covered their faces to keep out the swirling dust. Price caught glimpses of white skin and pale eyes beneath the black-and-white checkered fabric – definitely not locals. They hustled him aside. Though Price was relieved to see him open his eyes, MacTavish's face twisted in agony as they lifted him onto a stretcher. They rushed him away, and one of the masked men tugged at Price's sleeve, urging him to follow – not that he needed any encouragement. He spotted heavy machine gun positions on the surrounding hillsides. He followed the small crowd past a group of sentries and through a pair of blast doors, into a bunker set deep in the heart of the mountain.

Armed men, dressed like the stretcher-bearers, parted to make way for them as they hurried down a corridor. It was dry, well lit and finished in smooth, painted gray concrete. Pipes and conduits ran along the walls, along with the occasional warning sign (" _ВНИМАНИЕ_!"). Whoever had been there before had planned on digging in for a long time. Nikolai appeared at Price's side. "Is this place what I think it is?" asked Price, his eyes trained on the stretcher party ahead of him.

"An old Soviet base, from when we were here the first time," said Nikolai.

The current occupants were well equipped, judging both by their weapons and by the infirmary that they walked into. Price saw modern medical equipment sitting in corners and a row of neat cots in a nearby room. Curtained exam areas had fully stocked shelves and cabinets lining the walls. Nikolai was certainly a man with connections, though it was unclear with whom. Price had a feeling he'd soon find out.

* * *

 

**ВНИМАНИЕ:** (vneeMAHnyeh) ATTENTION.

**Casevac:** AKA CASEVAC, abbreviation of casualty evacuation; emergency transport of wounded from a combat zone.

**Collective:** Lever that resembles a parking brake. Located alongside the pilot's leg, it's used to control a helicopter's lift and speed; a twist throttle is located at the tip of it. The joystick-looking thing is the cyclic, which controls direction.

**Combat Gauze:** A brand name; gauze impregnated with kaolin to stop moderate to severe bleeding.

**Shemagh:** A kaffiyeh; woven scarf of checkered cotton, usually black and white. Commonly worn in the Middle East and Southern Asia.


	2. Hemostasis

" _Raz...dva...tri..."_

Soap gasped as he was lifted onto a brightly lit exam table. Medics wearing gloves and plastic aprons swarmed around him, cutting off his bloody clothing.

"His pendant – underneath his shirt – it's got his blood group on it," shouted Price, to no one in particular. "Nikolai, tell them!" A dark-haired, bearded medic pulled up the chain to glance at the dog tag and, finding Soap's own morphine pen, spoke to the other Russians working on MacTavish. "And tell them he got ten of morphine," Price added.

The team hovering over the blood-smeared, almost naked man was in constant motion. Velcro crackled as a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around Soap's bicep. One medic carefully fitted an oxygen mask over his battered face while a second snapped a rubber tourniquet on his other arm and began probing the crook of his elbow for a vein. The dark-haired one stuck his stethoscope in his ears and leaned over MacTavish, listening to his chest. He spoke Russian in a commanding tone, snapping his fingers in front of his nose, trying to keep his wandering attention. Soap blinked back at him, clearly having difficulty just keeping his eyes open.

Price watched the face of the man taking vital signs. He didn't seem too pleased with his findings as he reported them aloud to the group.

Terse orders were barked out in Russian. The plastic of the mask clouded with his breath as Soap groaned, softly at first, then louder in response to the removal of his dressings and the examination of his injuries. Price's gut twisted at the sound, and at his own helplessness as bustling medical personnel jostled him further away from the scene. Tubing was taped to Soap's arm while an IV bag was hung overhead and the clamp thumbed wide open to begin pouring fluid into him. Paper backing was peeled from small white disks; they were pressed to his chest and monitor wires snapped into place.

A second drip was being started as the dark-haired medic, his stethoscope now dangling from his neck, leaned over MacTavish and spoke in heavily accented English. "Hello, my friend. What's your name? John? John, I need you to look at me. That's it. Tell me what happened. Do you hurt anywhere besides your belly?" The mask muffled Soap's faint replies. "All right. Listen, John. We're going take you to surgery in a few minutes. I'm going to give you something to make you sleep, okay?" Soap nodded weakly.

Soap's tattoos stood out in stark contrast to his ashen pallor, and Price cursed his inability to give proper aid in the field. When they'd set out after Shepherd, they hadn't exactly planned on rescue. So they'd packed light. They'd never expected to survive, much less need a trauma kit. It had been one of the first things left behind. If they hadn't, Soap would have been stabilized by now. Instead, he looked like he could be going into shock, and once that happened…

He thought of Soap's family. Would Shepherd's version of the story be all they knew about the fate of their son? It was unacceptable. Somehow, some way, in whatever time he had left, he had to get word to them, to tell them the truth.

If only they'd been a little closer, flown a little faster...

Price jumped at a sudden loud alarm from the monitor, a high-pitched pinging that was quickly silenced by one of the group. Their movements remained calm, organized and deliberate. He tried to stay focused on that, and the fact that as critical as he was, Soap was still responsive.

His gaze descended to the forest of feet and legs milling around the scene. The floor was littered with discarded dressings, wrappers and small empty boxes. Fresh blood spattered their shoes. His eyes were drawn back upward by shadowy figures outlined by harsh light, smudges of red, a glint of metal. A pair of blue-gloved hands held up a syringe, drawing up a dose of medication. Dizziness descended on him like a lead curtain, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through it.

"He's in good hands," Nikolai said, his sudden close presence startling Price. "Now you should let someone take a look at you."

Price didn't respond to Nikolai's urging; his eyes were glued to the hive of activity on the other side of the room - the room that was now tilting slowly to the side. He screwed his eyes shut again, which only seemed to intensify the ringing in his ears.

Nikolai came closer, his voice softening. "Price, there is nothing more we can do. You need to be seen to now."

"I'm fine," Price snapped. "I've had worse."

That was all too true. Price would not readily admit to some of the things that were done to him in prison; he kept those memories deeply and safely buried. But it was also true that his discomfort was growing. Dried blood and sand pulled at the raw skin of his face. His eyelashes tickled the puffy flesh around his eyes, one of which was swelling shut. The throbbing in his head and face was relentless now, along with the ever-present pain in his side and the shortness of breath. He recognized it for what it was – he'd broken ribs before. More worrisome to him was the pain that radiated through his back, abdomen and left shoulder. He felt sick, and knew that it wasn't just out of concern for Soap.

While medical instruments were being laid out nearby, Soap went limp and silent, eyes closing once again. The dark-haired medic stood at the head of the table, watching him. He pulled the mask from MacTavish's face and nodded to one of the others, who injected another drug into the IV line. The Russians crowded around Soap, making it difficult to see what was happening. Price caught glimpses of them tilting his head back, putting something in his mouth, inserting a curved tube down his throat… Price's hands tingled. He felt odd; something was wrong.

With nods and murmurs of agreement, the crowd began to disperse. They'd attached a blue resuscitator bag. One medic squeezed it in a gentle rhythm while another secured the tube in place with cloth ties.

 _Whoosh ... Whoosh … whoosh_. Right in time with the pulsing pain in Price's skull – it matched the pounding in his chest. The bright lights overhead were hurting his eyes...

Everything was fading to gray...

_CRASH!_

A tremendous metallic clatter erupted next to Price. Footsteps and voices surrounded him. " _Chyort_ ," one swore. Hands caught him under each arm and began steering him … somewhere.

Nikolai's voice sounded strange. "I've got him. All right Price, that's it, let's get you in here." The hushed voices all blended into a hum. The ground shifted, and he felt like he was floating...

* * *

With a crisp snap, fumes of ammonia seared into his sinuses; Price gasped and jerked his head up. An arm reached up to tilt the overhead lighting out of his face. He was lying on a trolley, surrounded by drawn curtains. Nikolai was leaning over him, along with the same medic who'd spoken to Soap earlier.

"Nikolai —" Price winced. He had a splitting headache, and felt like someone was sitting on his chest.

"He's in surgery. And no, you haven't been out that long."

The medic tossed away the crushed ampoule of smelling salts and turned back to Price. His dark brown wavy hair and beard were filtered with threads of gray. He looked to be in his forties, though his brown eyes were older than his face – eyes that had seen too much, too quickly. "Captain Price."

Price flinched involuntarily when the man reached for him. The medic stopped for a moment with a flicker of concern, then raised the head of the trolley a bit, relieving some of the pressure in his head and chest, but not much. Price peered back at him in confusion.

The solemn expression shifted to dry amusement. "Let's just say your reputation precedes you. I'm Misha, one of the doctors here. You were swaying on your feet, knocked over my cart." Careful hands touched Price's face. "What happened here?" Misha asked, flashing a penlight into his swollen eyes.

Price stopped squinting and fixed him with a look. "History."

Misha's eyebrows shot up. That put a stop to the questions — for now.

When Nikolai and Misha helped Price to remove his jacket and shirt, his injuries really began to register. Now that the adrenalin rush had worn off, there were few parts of him that didn't hurt. Every breath was a vicious stab of pain.

Misha's eyebrows arched again at some of the fresh scarring on Price's body, but he prudently remained silent.

Nikolai met the doctor's eyes. "I think it's time I got out of the way. I'll be back in a little while."

After the 141 had literally broken him out of prison, Price had known better than to let their medics anywhere near him - they'd have kept him off the mission in a heartbeat. He'd insisted he was fine, and he'd prevailed, but not before he'd been confronted by a few skeptical teammates, Riley especially. Though it had stung his pride, Price had resorted to pulling rank.

The debate hadn't ended well.

Now it had all finally caught up with him. When Misha's hand pressed into his abdomen, Price's breath hitched and he gripped the trolley's tubular frame, his knuckles whitening. Though he'd never been very fond of them to begin with, he'd never realized it until now: he couldn't stand doctors. All the poking, prodding … the incessant questions. The clinical smell. He glared up at Misha. "Thought you lot were supposed to make me feel better."

"You will."

"Then hands off, eh? I have to sit up. I can't breathe and my head feels like it's going to explode."

"In a minute."

Misha touched another sore spot, and Price nearly flew off the trolley.

Pain and fatigue had gotten the better of him; they carried on with their examination, unimpressed with his further attempts to argue with them. Afterward, the change of clothing seemed to be a peace offering. The baggy Afghan tunic and trousers were soft and warm, a welcome relief from being cold, wet and sandy – if he could just get them on. He attempted to brush off the medics' assistance but had to stop. "You said those pills would take the edge off. What edge?" he panted, his eyes squeezed shut. "They're not doing a damned thing."

"We can't give you any of the 'good stuff' right now. Not with that concussion," said Misha. He finished pulling the shirt over Price's head and began to help him lie down again. "Relax, we're not done with you yet." The other Russian medic sorted through a cabinet, pulling out little glass tubes for a blood sample.

Price had other ideas. He started to get up. "The man that was brought in with me – " Pain finished his sentence for him.

"Nothing yet, my friend. They are still working on him. Now," Misha said, easing Price back down. "It is time to take care of _you_."

Price sighed in resignation.

* * *

 

Chyort [черт]: Damn!


	3. Nanawatai

The time crawled in the terrible twilight between exhaustion and sleep. The pain in his head and face throbbed away the seconds like a watch. The pain in his ribs was worse.

The springs of the infirmary cot squeaked as Price pulled his knees toward his chest to ease the cramping in his belly. He'd otherwise given up on finding a comfortable position. The ice pack for his face sat abandoned on the blanket, the bright, colorful woven pattern striking a note of false cheer in the drab room. It had that Eastern bloc look to it, with a line of institutional green paint ending halfway up the cracked wall. There was a string of red Cyrillic characters stenciled on it to go with the dusty fire extinguisher mounted in the corner. Pipes coated with a thick pebbled layer of light gray paint wound their way overhead past the cage lamps. At the moment, he was the ward's only patient.

He had refused to let them put an IV drip in him. Misha had granted him that one concession. Otherwise, the doctor had made it clear that there would be no further argument as he informed Price of his findings and that he was on bed rest from that point forward. As much as he hated it, Price did as he was told. He'd already known something was wrong before the phrase 'walking time bomb' had gotten his attention.

As a soldier, he had been conditioned to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself. Not this time. Between the ineffective pain medication, the unbearable waiting and the too-familiar head-injury-questions-every-so-often drill, sleep was impossible.

Nikolai brought him a cup of tea, which soothed him somewhat, and tried to engage him in some small talk about some of their past adventures. But Price wasn't having it, and continued to brood in silence.

He hadn't yet truly processed the murders of Gary "Roach" Sanderson and Simon "Ghost" Riley just a couple of days before. The familiar empty ache was back in Price's chest, the kind that had nothing to do with his injuries, as he recalled the harsh words he'd last had with Riley, forever ending their conversation on that bitter note. Staring numbly at the wall, he thought of all the people he'd lost over the years. MacMillan, Gaz, Griggs ... to name a few. This was what he hated the most about being stuck here – hell, being stuck anywhere. As nature abhors a vacuum, he dreaded downtime – it lent itself too well to reflection.

Would he lose another friend today?

Exasperated, Nikolai gave up trying to talk to him and said he'd go see if there was any news.

* * *

He must have finally dozed off, because he startled at Nikolai shaking his shoulder. "Soap is out of surgery, and is doing well."

Bleary-eyed, Price bolted up from the bed and regretted it immediately. He choked back a curse as his injured body rebelled against the sudden movement. Hunched over, breath hissing through his teeth, he cautiously began to straighten himself upward.

Nikolai winced in sympathy. Not so long ago, he himself had been the recipient of such a beating. "You know you shouldn't be out of bed," he said. "But I know I can't convince you to stay there." Nikolai took Price's arm to help steady him as he got moving. "Let me help you, my friend ... it will get a little worse before it gets better."

"Thanks a lot, Nikolai," said Price dryly as they made their way to a nearby room.

Soap was in a brightly lit, curtained-off area that Price presumed to be for critical patients. He heard Nikolai blow out a sudden breath behind him, reflecting his own apprehension. Soft rhythmic beeping and harsh mechanical respirations punctuated the white noise of hissing air. Machines, oxygen equipment and IV poles surrounded the bed. Bags of clear fluid and blood dangled overhead, tubing snaking down like vines in a technological jungle. Amidst a twinkling constellation of tiny green lights and digital readouts, a jagged rainbow of waveforms rose and fell across a slim LCD screen. A musical series of beeps began, like someone quietly whistling a tune. While a nearby medic continued to take notes on a clipboard, another walked over to one of the machines and punched buttons on the keypad, silencing it. It was the ventilator; Price's eyes followed its thick pair of accordion-like blue air hoses to the endotracheal tube that arched from the corner of Soap's mouth.

Price swallowed, trying to hold back both the unease in the pit of his stomach and the unwanted memories. _Was this how it felt, lad? Was this what I looked like?_

Soap's unconscious face was still pale – rather, the parts that weren't bruised and swollen, such as his broken nose, which was bridged with a bandage. He was wrapped in a warm cocoon of woolen blankets, with only his hands sticking out. One hand had a loop of IV tubing taped to the back of it, and the other had a glowing red pulse oximeter clipped to the index finger. The curtains parted to admit a tall, gray-haired man dressed in green scrubs and a surgical cap. He poked his fingers into those hands and began to speak somewhat loudly in Russian.

Nikolai hurried to his side and leaned over to his ear. "Soap," he said. "Open your eyes. Squeeze his hands."

Eyes rolled beneath bruised lids. The hands clutched weakly in response.

Price sighed with relief. His body sagged with pain and fatigue as the doctor, satisfied with his first patient's condition, approached his second. Without preamble, he tilted Price's chin upward to peer into his face and begin addressing him in Russian. Price shrank from the unwelcome contact; it was all he could do to stop himself from shoving the man away from him.

Nikolai began translating. "He asks, do you know wh-"

"I know who I am, more or less where I am, and what day it is, for fuck's sake! And yes, I'm in pain. Tell him they can stop asking me!"

The corner of the doctor's mouth twitched upward; he understood _some_ English. He lowered his voice, looking back and forth between Soap and Price while Nikolai translated.

"He says Soap was very lucky, and that he doesn't think he'll suffer any permanent damage. If there had been a few centimeters' difference in how he was stabbed, he would not have survived. He's stable, and will be asleep for some time. He says he can see that you are exhausted and uncomfortable, and can give you something a bit stronger now to help you rest. He also says that if you don't get some rest, you might wind up in surgery yourself."

After watching Soap sleep for a short while, breathing in rhythm to the _whoosh-click_ of the ventilator, Price didn't offer too much resistance as he was put back to bed and given some pills. The act of settling down to sleep was a slow and painful business. However, within half an hour, warm darkness finally enveloped him.

* * *

Price slept through the night and most of the next day.

He took little notice when medics quietly slipped into the room to take his vital signs and study him with a critical eye. He would wake up briefly to answer questions/ask about Soap and fall back to sleep again until the late afternoon, when he finally woke to the squeeze and puffing of a blood pressure cuff. His nostrils twitched to the smell of ... fresh coffee. As he breathed in the smell more deeply, his eyes opened to see Nikolai standing next to his bed, steaming cup in hand.

"Welcome back, Price."

The medic finished taking his blood pressure and pulse.

"Someone has been asking about you, and told me one of these would get your lazy ass up and moving," said Nikolai, with no small amount of amusement.

"Oh really- _ugh,_ " Price groaned as he struggled to sit up. The medic helped him into a sitting position, and after that small ordeal was over, spoke some Russian, inclining his head towards a small paper cup sitting on the bedside table. Price's mouth pressed into a frown.

"He says not to worry – the pills won't knock you out, they're just a mild painkiller," Nikolai said.

Price shook his head; Nikolai rolled his eyes. The medic shrugged, gathered his things, and after a brief exchange with Nikolai, went on his way.

Price snatched the cup from Nikolai, taking a big gulp. The black sludge definitely wasn't for the faint of heart – a sure sign of a military installation if there ever was one. He braced himself and stood up, letting the worst of the pain pass. He accepted the offer of his boonie hat, which Nikolai had picked out of the canvas duffel bag lying on the bedside chair. Taking another swig, Price began to follow him down the corridor, easing along as he worked his way through his soreness, and of course not wanting to spill his coffee.

Soap was dozing, the head of his bed raised halfway up. He was breathing on his own now, with slim oxygen tubing looped over his ears and under his bandaged nose. Most of the color had returned to his cheeks. Stitches tracked across the contused, lumpy cut over his eyebrow – soon to be another scar for his collection. Purple bruising had blossomed around both eyes. He wore a tunic similar to Price's. Multicolored monitor wires snaked out of his unbuttoned collar.

"I thought you said he was awake," said Price.

" ...'m awake," mumbled Soap in a raspy voice, without opening his eyes.

"Oh? And what exactly was that about _my_ lazy arse?"

"Mmm ... don't know what you're talking about."

Price chuckled. "How're you feeling, Soap?" he asked, easing himself into a chair.

"Ohh ... not too bad..." MacTavish slurred, squinting up at him.

"Oh, I can see that. You look like you've been on the piss. I bet you can't keep both eyes open at the same time."

To answer the challenge, one blue eye popped open to a tiny slit, and immediately clamped shut as the other peeked open.

"Umm, no..." came the sleepy confirmation. He coughed, and his face crumpled.

Guessing one source of Soap's discomfort, Nikolai spied a cup of water on the bedside table and brought it over to him. Price pushed himself out of his chair with a wince of his own, and helped support Soap's head as the cup was brought to his lips. He began to gulp deeply.

"Whoa – easy, not so fast – you'll make yourself sick," said Nikolai.

Soap stopped right then and begin taking deep breaths, and the two worried for a moment that that the warning came too late. But he settled down and they lowered him back into his pillows.

"Do you need anything else, mate?" Price asked.

One eye opened again slightly, then the other, to peer at each of the men standing over him.

"Aye ... nurses that aren't so damned ugly."

That got a good laugh from the pair, though Price's quickly turned into grunts of pain as he clutched his midsection. _Shit._ Laughing hurt like hell.

Soap didn't say anything further and was soon snoring, so Price followed Nikolai down the passageway toward another welcome smell: hot food.

* * *

**_Nanawatai_ [Pashto: ننواتی] - ** Sanctuary


	4. Reunion

They stepped into a large room with rows of long tables, which were full of men chatting, laughing and tucking into platefuls of food. Price's ears perked when he heard that some of the chatter was in English. This was especially interesting coming from some of the shaggy-haired, bearded men dressed as Afghans. A few quieted at the sight of the British stranger and began muttering among themselves, stealing glances at Price. Others took no notice, and Price pretended to do the same as Nikolai led him over to a particularly boisterous table.

It seemed they were having a pretty good story, because it was punctuated by loud Russian speech and bursts of laughter. The distinctive odor of clove cigarettes hung around the group. The men quieted and began to disperse with Price's arrival, to reveal the storyteller and a familiar face: a burly, ginger-haired, bearded man wearing jeans and a blue half-zip fleece pullover.

_Kamarov – should have known._ _Like a bad penny._

Along with his attire, Kamarov's grooming no longer complied with any sort of military regulations. His beard was not so neatly trimmed as it had been in the past, and his hair had grown thick and wavy, the curls just brushing his collar.

_He always was a lucky bastard._

Nikolai gave Price a knowing look as he clapped a hand on his arm. With a nod and the beginnings of a smile, he took his leave to join the group of Russians who had been calling him from across the room. They welcomed him with bear hugs and slaps on the back, and fell into loud animated conversation.

Kamarov's face fell when he saw who was standing next to him. "Price!" He rose from the table he had been sitting on. "How are you?" he asked softly, his expression earnest as he greeted his old acquaintance.

"Been worse. Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

"You've been worse," said Kamarov with a wry shake of his head. "But you've looked better."

_Seven shades better._ "Don't remind me."

Kamarov gestured toward the table. "Please – you must be hungry. Sit down and have something to eat."

That sounded pretty damn good to him. He was ravenous, and couldn't remember the last time he ate. As he settled himself into a chair, a groan escaped him.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'll be fine. Just a broken rib or two. Nothing to do but be miserable for a while."

Kamarov shot him a penetrating look, but switched gears with a short laugh. "You mean ... more miserable than usual?" He proceeded to cheerfully shout across the room in Russian.

After a few minutes of sipping of his now-cold coffee, a dish of hot stew and a slab of flat bread was set down in front of Price. Kamarov's face cracked into a grin as he watched Price tear into his meal.

"You eat like a starving dog, man ... or a -" his smile faltered as he caught himself.

"A prisoner?" Price asked pointedly around a mouthful of food, ignoring the sting of his split lip.

" _Da_ ," Kamarov replied after a moment.

Some of the nearby men grew a sudden interest in other things, and Price watched them attempt to look casual as they moved away from the scene. Kamarov sat beside him, sipping his own cup of tea as he continued to watch Price gobble his food.

After he'd finished, the Russian pulled a cigar from the front pocket of his pullover, and with eyebrows raised, offered it.

With an appreciative grunt, Price accepted, his reply automatic. " _Spasibo."_ Imprisonment had been an effective teacher, though his Russian vocabulary never got far past elementary phrases and some very basic swearing. If Kamarov was surprised by it, he showed no sign. He produced a cutter, clipped off the cigar's cap for Price and waited patiently for his slow rise from the chair.

They walked past the group of sentries, some armed with RPKs, others with AK variants. Their clothing was an amalgam of Russian combat boots and gear, tactical vests, and the baggy Afghan _shalwar_ _kame_ _ez._ The men nodded as they passed. Once they were outside the entrance to the compound, Kamarov waved to the nearest machine gunner, who was leaning on sandbags next to a DShK. The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew out a thin stream of smoke as he waved back.

Noticing Price's reaction, Kamarov grinned and said, "It might be old, but not too old where it counts."

That got a brief smile out of Price. " _Heh_ \- aren't we all."

The sun was setting, deepening the shadows in the rocky mountainsides. A star twinkled in the purple dusk. Though the air was still warm, the breeze held the promise of an evening chill.

Taking out one of his clove cigarettes, Kamarov snapped open a lighter and lit it, then lit Price's cigar. They both took a drag, and exhaled slowly, watching a hawk wheel high above them as their smoke was stolen by the wind.

"A base like this has few secrets, but it's even worse than I thought," said Price. He used the act of smoking to mask his dismay, trying to shrug off the specter of humiliation clawing its way to the surface.

Kamarov's tone was apologetic. "Your escape from Petropavlovsk was remarkable, my friend. Few men make it out of there," he paused. " ...intact." His eyes hardened as he followed the hawk's flight. "A great many of us were sent there to rot. You remember Kolya, Anatoly ... did you see any of my men?"

Price caught the flicker of hope in Kamarov's eyes, and lowered his own to the ground as he spoke. "No. They were sure to keep me isolated. I rarely saw anyone else." A white lie. Though they had kept him separated from the general population, he had caught glimpses of some of the Loyalist prisoners, whom, since their arrival, had been rendered somewhat less recognizable. Kamarov was better off not knowing about it.

"The reputation of that place is well-deserved." The tip of the cigarette glowed, reflecting momentary embers in Kamarov's stony gaze.

Price blew out a mouthful of smoke. "Committed to the tower to await Makarov's pleasure," he said sarcastically. "The last day I was there, I thought it was my last day on Earth. The prodigal son himself was about to arrive, and when he did, they'd be sure to take their time. You know I couldn't allow that to happen."

Kamarov's eyes were drawn to Price's fingertips gripping his cigar; some of the fingernails were still growing in.

"No," he said. "But here you are. I saw you come back from the dead once already. Now you've escaped death again. Seems you still have some unfinished business with the living."

"Yes, I do at that," Price replied, his voice almost a whisper. He took a pull on the cigar and let the spicy smoke curl from his lips. The hawk dove to earth and rebounded, the body of a rodent twisting raglike in its talons.

For years Kamarov had very much been one of the 'friends like these', to the point where it had become a running joke in the Regiment. The fateful day five years ago had changed that.

"I'd thought I was standing over your body," said Kamarov. "You were pale as a ghost, not moving at all except when Kolya pounded on your chest. 8:35 am — that's when he and Anatoly almost gave up on you — almost. It took all their skills to keep you alive aboard the helicopter, and even after that… " He studied his cigarette for a moment. "Doctors said it was a miracle." A small smile. "They don't know you like I do … and your friend's almost as bullheaded as you are. When we loaded him onto the stretcher, I told him he would be all right, but truthfully?" Kamarov shook his head. "He was barely breathing when we found him. So much blood on his face, could hardly tell who he was. Thought for sure he'd lose that eye." He took another drag. "How _is_ MacTavish?"

Price was more than happy to change the subject. "Doped up to the gills at the moment, but we'll see how he does when some of that has worn off."

They stood for a few minutes, smoking in silence, until Price could no longer contain the questions that consumed him. "So how is it that a group of Russians can hole up in Afghanistan, surrounded by neighbors that would just as soon kill you in your sleep? And don't tell me that they just think you're Chechens."

The corner of Kamarov's mouth tugged upward, and he nodded. "Ah," he began, taking a breath but stopping midstream. It was getting cold, and Price was shivering in his thin shirt. "It's something of long story. But come," he stubbed out his cigarette. "Let's get you some warmer clothes, then I'll show you to your quarters and we can can talk about it. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to remain in the infirmary?"

"Thanks, but no thanks. Soap will be all right, and I've had quite enough of those places. Just set me up with a bottle of painkillers – or a bottle of whiskey – preferably both and I'll be fine."

Kamarov chuckled. "That's what I thought you'd say."

They stopped by the infirmary to pick up Price's belongings and look in on Soap. Fast asleep in his nest of blankets, tubing and wires, he was completely oblivious to the medics examining him and the surrounding equipment.

_Enjoy it while it lasts, mate._


	5. Strange Bedfellows

"...and the armory is down that corridor," said Kamarov, waving an arm in that direction as they passed. "The troop quarters are this way." He carried the bundle of Price's web gear and clothing for the injured ex-captain, who walked alongside, his expression stoic.

Although eating had made Price feel better, all the walking around hadn't. The pain in his side stabbed him with every step. His head was again starting to throb. Despite all the sleep he'd gotten, he was still bone-weary. He tried not to think about it. Especially since there was so much else to occupy his thoughts.

_A machine gun that belongs in a museum ... but an infirmary full of machines-that-go-ping that would put many hospitals to shame. For a group of Russians on the outs with their own government, you're doing all right for yourselves. Someone still loves you, Kamarov. Someone with deep pockets._

The headache was becoming more difficult to ignore. He felt lightheaded, spacey. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking as deep a breath as he could manage. _Come on - get it together, John ... mind over matter..._

"Price."

"What?"

Kamarov was looking at him sideways, unfooled. "You need to take it slow and get some more rest tonight. The doctor will look in on you later."

"Can't wait," said Price. "And as for taking it slow – that's the only speed I've got right now."

"Uh-oh. Escaped the infirmary early? Good for you, man," said an American voice.

Pain lanced through his side as his breath caught; he felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. As he fought to master his own response, Price noticed Kamarov's surprised reaction – it wasn't entirely pleased.

The voice belonged to a tall man in his late forties with a broad-shouldered, muscular build and silver wavy hair. A mischievous grin dimpled a rosy-cheeked cherubic face. "Kamarov," he boomed in greeting, pumping the Russian's hand. He then stuck his big hand out at Price. His frayed clothing was stereotypical: tan tactical pants, hiking shoes, a black shirt and fleece jacket, with the ubiquitous shemagh knotted around his neck. A Glock's familiar shape peeked out of the holster at his hip.

_Well, fuck me. This explains the money._

"Hey man, how's it going," he drawled in a southern accent, not unlike Elvis. "Buzz. You must be Price."

_Bollocks. So much for that._ "Yeah," he replied cautiously, accepting the handshake.

"SAS? SBS?" inquired the big American.

There didn't seem to be much point in lying. The man's bright blue eyes were sharp and intelligent, scanning his face, watching his body language. "SAS - used to be," said Price.

"You're gonna find that most of us here are ex-something," said Buzz thoughtfully.

"Like you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

Price forced a smile and a nod.

"Well … they called me a 'quiet professional'. Strictly hearsay, of course." Buzz grinned. "Guys like us can peg another operator a mile away, don't ya think?"

"Helps to not wear the official uniform."

Buzz's eyebrows quirked as he looked down at himself. "Guess you got me there. We've got another Brit or two rattling around here somewhere. Maybe someone you know."

_Oh, brilliant_. He kept his face relaxed, casual. "Maybe. Ex-Delta ... so what are you now, then?"

"Ohh," Buzz rolled his eyes with a coy smile. "You know what they say – in the face of fear, uncertainty and doubt, there are consultants."

"No shortage of 'em these days. Let me guess - it's classified?"

"Yeah, you know how it is. Not hard to do the math, though," Buzz said. "And you?"

"Same thing."

"Fair enough," he said, though Price could see the wheels turning. The man wasn't buying this load of old pony any more than he'd bought his.

Kamarov had composed himself and pasted on a calm, pleasant expression. "Back already – I didn't think we'd be seeing you again for while."

"Me neither. Things wrapped up early for a change."

"How was it up there tonight?" Kamarov asked, nodding his head in the direction of the opposite corridor.

"All quiet. Off licking their wounds, I suppose. Did you guys leave me any grub?"

Kamarov's mockingly pained look broke into an admonishing smile. "For you, always. It's your favorite."

"Well then say no more! See you around." Buzz headed toward the dining hall. "Oh hey – Price?"

They looked over their shoulders.

"Hope your buddy's feeling better."

Price almost choked. "Thanks." With a nod and a hand in the air, Buzz disappeared around the corner.

Kamarov's eyes lingered on the empty hallway. "He has just come down off the northern observation post. We can go there tomorrow if you're feeling up to it – " his voice trailed off as he turned to Price.

There was a friendly shout from up ahead; Nikolai was approaching. His smile vanished in response to the looks on their faces. The temperature in the already chilly corridor seemed to drop by another couple of degrees.

"A word – in private – now," said Price.

* * *

For a man in his line of work, Kamarov was an unusually good-natured sort. When Price's team had been trapped at the bridge, he'd come to their rescue at top speed, despite their previous encounter in Azerbaijan. Price doubted he could have been quite so forgiving — if _he'd_ been the one dangled headfirst over a fifty-foot drop, he might have experienced sudden engine trouble. Kamarov had wasted far too much of their time; they'd feared that Nikolai's might have already run out. Since Gaz had been itching to have a go at Kamarov anyway, Price had finally let him. He'd enjoyed the show as much as anyone. Now he regretted it. Thankfully, Kamarov seemed the type to let bygones be bygones.

However, at the moment he was severely pissed off, and like most people would, had chosen his native tongue in order to express his displeasure.

Price didn't need to understand any of his ranting; it was clear that he was giving a sheepish-looking Nikolai a good bollocking. It wasn't long before Nikolai started angrily giving it back to him, and the argument was becoming heated. Price held up his hands trying to broker the peace.

" ...I know!" Kamarov finished shouting at Nikolai, and whirled around to Price. His face was bright red. "He neglected to tell me the part where you two killed an American general – and so did you!"

They had gathered in a small dim office at the end of a quiet corridor, which was somewhat of an obstacle course, having been piled with various boxes of supplies. The room itself looked forgotten, with dusty books, folders and paper strewn about in uneven piles. A three-year old calendar, the months labeled in Cyrillic, was hung on a cork board and featured an attractive woman posing with a Saiga-12 shotgun. It was accompanied by a poster detailing the breakdown of an AK-47. A stack of old magazines threatened to slide off the edge of the desk at any moment.

Indignant, Nikolai began to protest in Russian, and Kamarov held up a hand to silence him. "As you can see, we are getting help from foreign governments – including American Special Operations."

"Special Operations ... and that's not all," said Price. "Consultants," he sneered. "Ex-Delta, more like current CIA. Isn't that right, Kamarov? How many?"

"Two, plus their team of twelve, though their men aren't here at the moment."

Price had expected the explanation of the Russian presence here to be interesting, to say the least, and Kamarov hadn't disappointed him. Following the Ultranationalist succession to the Kremlin, the Loyalists had taken a lesson from past enemies and had gone underground, dividing into cells. Currently they were biding their time, gathering and funneling supplies, weapons and personnel back into Russia, in the hope of staging an eventual coup. Recent events in America, along with sheer necessity, had forged some intriguing alliances – especially this one.

_The CIA ... the more things change, the more they stay the same. Back again in Afghanistan with bags of cash, hoping to back the right horse._ Price was sure to keep that particular comment to himself. He seriously doubted that the two former Soviet soldiers would find the irony half as amusing as he did. _  
_

"You understand the position you've put me in."

"I do," said Price. Pangs of guilt again. Kamarov's debts to him had long been paid in full; now their positions had been reversed, with Price owing double. Since the incident at the bridge, he hadn't noticed the insidious return of his conscience, which he'd thought long-dead. He needed it to stay there. Guilt was a useless troublesome emotion, one best reserved for those who still held hope of redemption.

"You all need to leave as soon as possible."

"Duly noted," said Price, barely tamping down his irritation at the obvious. "But right now, Soap's not going anywhere, so neither am I."

"I just stopped in to see him," said Nikolai. "It's going to be a least a few days."

Kamarov cursed in Russian under his breath. "As soon as he can walk, we have a safe house to the north. My men can take you there."

"Apparently, word from Shepherd's camp doesn't travel fast, or we would have woke up in cuffs yesterday morning, " said Price. "The entire base seems to already know who we are."

"While I'm not so sure about the second and last parts, I agree on one thing – they don't seem to know," said Kamarov. "You know it won't be long before they do. I'll do what I can to keep them occupied and away from you. Although," he stroked his beard, shuffling from foot to foot as he turned away from them to think. "The local troublemakers have stepped up their activity lately." He was almost starting to sound optimistic. "The problem might take care of itself for the time being. Even so, you shouldn't stay for more than a couple of days. In the meantime, I'll assign a small detail. I'll put Sasha to work in the infirmary, and I'll put you and Nikolai up with... " His voice trailed off as he turned back toward the group, pondering the options.

"Sergei and Bogdan?" suggested Nikolai, who had straddled an office chair and was swiveling it back and forth in slow arcs.

"Yes – that's perfect," said Kamarov. He gave a dark huff. "So Price, it looks like you're going to be a 'consultant' after all."

"I can play along for a day or so," said Price. "Let's just hope their usual government infighting continues to work in our favor."

* * *

Price hissed in pain, squeezing his eyes shut. "Must you keep doing that?"

Misha clicked off his penlight. "Yes. Now follow it with your eyes," he said, waving it back and forth, up and down. "Good."

Nikolai and two other Russians looked on with casual interest as the medic conducted his bedside examination of Price, who had gotten settled onto a cot in their small quarters. Sergei, a close-shorn blond man with gray eyes and a medium build, sat on his own cot as he thumbed through a Russian fashion magazine, occasionally glancing over at Price's grunts of discomfort. Doing the same was Bogdan, a tall, bearlike, dark-haired silent man with a bushy beard. He could easily have passed for one of the locals. He was doing a detailed cleaning of his Serdyukov SPS pistol, which lay in pieces on a small folding table.

After a few minutes, Misha took the stethoscope from around his neck and frowned. "You don't look so good, Price. You should be back in the infirmary. You had to be stubborn, wouldn't let us treat you properly. Now you're walking all over the place – heard you just ate a big meal. How's that sitting?" Unfazed by the withering look, Misha began rolling up Price's sleeve, shaking his head. "You're not doing yourself any favors, my friend." With a firm tug, the tourniquet pinched the skin of his arm. "Have you at least been drinking enough?"

His mouth suddenly dry, Price swallowed and looked away. The room was cramped and stuffy, the stale air heavy with the tangy odor of gun solvent. At this point, the otherwise familiar smell was turning Price's stomach. His pulse pounded in his neck and temples, and he ignored the look that he felt Misha give him. Instead, he slowly took the deepest breath he could muster while he focused on the wall in front of him. From the collage of magazine pages pasted there, severe-looking runway models stared back at him with heavily made-up, lusty eyes.

"You look like shit, man," Sergei offered, in a gravelly Russian accent.

"Oh, thanks very much - _ah_." Price shot an exaggerated scowl at Misha, keeping his eyes off the needle in his arm. "Didn't you take enough yesterday?" Sergei smirked and went back to his magazine. Bogdan smiled quietly to himself as he pushed a brush through the pistol's bore, spraying solvent halfway across the room with a fresh blast of sickly-sweet aroma. Nikolai stood against the wall, hands in his pockets, shaking his head.

"I'll be fine," said Price, his arm now bent to hold pressure on the small bandage, hoping his relief wasn't too obvious.

"You will be," replied Misha. "But for now, you need fluids and rest." Reaching into his bag, he brought out a rattling plastic bottle. He shook out two pills and produced a tall bottle of water. "Here."

"I can't take stag like this – " Price began.

"No watch for you tonight," replied Sergei, cutting him off. "That's our orders. And now, you have yours," he said, inclining his head toward Misha.

"Come on Price, I need to get some rest too, I don't have all night," said Nikolai, taking off his jacket, unlacing his boots and settling down on the cot next to him.

Price scoffed at the vote against him, and washed down the pills with a swig from the bottle. "Keep it," said Misha when Price offered to return it to him. "And drink it – all of it." Now done with his lecture, his features softened. "You need to get your strength back for the days ahead, you're going to need it to help your friend." He pulled a blanket over him. Price bristled at being tucked in like a child, and pulled his hat down over his eyes to hide his annoyance as much as block out the light. He heard Misha pick up his bag with a sigh, and listened to the Russians converse briefly with each other as he left.

After a few minutes, Price slid the hat from his face. Grimacing, he brought himself back up on his elbows to drink his water. His nose wrinkled as he glanced over to the other side of the room, fighting his nausea. He concentrated on preventing the pills from making a reappearance.

"What's the matter? The fumes getting to you?" Sergei apparently didn't miss much. He tilted his head toward Bogdan. "You should smell his feet."

The placid expression never left Bogdan's face. He continued scrubbing the pistol's slide, tilting it from side to side in order to work the brush's bristles into the small crevices, not sparing a look at Sergei. " _Pizda."_

Sergei swelled up his chest with a smirk of mock sentiment and blew Bogdan a kiss. "See – he loves me."

Price chuckled in spite of himself. "You guys speak English pretty well. You do, anyway...were you – ?"

"FSB, yes. Both of us. We were in England together – New Rodina," he said with a grin. For a moment, Price thought the man was baiting him. Perhaps not; Sergei continued: "He speaks it too, but he doesn't say much in general. Don't worry," he said, and peeled up the edge of his mattress to reveal an AKS-74U underneath. "You're sleeping. We're not."

_New Rodina_ , Price mused. The name meant 'new homeland'; a Russian joke, especially coming from those sent to the UK as spies. Now yesterday's spies were today's insurgents – and his protectors. Strange bedfellows, to be sure. He didn't want to think about what they were doing there to begin with. _Let's hope they don't offer me any tea,_ he thought darkly. Now here he was, having to put trust in men that he otherwise wouldn't take his eyes off of.

It wasn't long before Price realized he hadn't much choice. His aches and pains were fading into the background, being replaced by a narcotic warmth. He soon found himself fighting to keep his eyes open.

As he finished his water, Price noticed Nikolai watching him out of the corner of his eye, a small smile playing across his puggish features. Between that and his less-than-average height, he wouldn't be doing any teen magazine shoots anytime soon. Yet if any women were present other than the ones pasted to the wall, they'd be here by now. It was a mystery they'd all given up on solving. Good on him.

"Sleep well, Price," he said, wrapping a pillow around his head, making himself comfortable on his side.

"Mmm...night," Price mumbled. He settled back down into his own pillow, pulled the hat back over his eyes and sighed, drifting off...

* * *

_**Pizda**_ **[** **пизда]** **:** twat


	6. Mala Strana

The next morning, Price grabbed a cup of the industrial-strength coffee and went to see Soap. When he arrived at the infirmary, he found the bed empty. He made his way through the maze of curtains and equipment until he found Misha slouched over his desk, chin propped in his hand as he pored over some paperwork, chewing on his pen.

"We needed the bed back for emergencies," said Misha, not yet looking up, as if he'd been expecting him. "He's over there." He dropped his pen and straightened up, finally giving Price a look of appraisal. "You're looking better." He stood up and stretched, cracking his back.

"I'm getting along all right. How is he?"

"He could use some company, I think," replied the doctor with a sigh, as they walked to the ward where Price had previously stayed. "I don't think he's very happy with us right now. He has a touch of pneumonia, probably from inhaling river water, on top of being down for a few days. The antibiotics should take care of that. In the meantime, we had to get him out of bed for a few minutes, to get him moving. The first time up is never pleasant."

"Too right it isn't." Price frowned at the memory of his own experiences.

"Seeing you will help take his mind off things," said Misha, and nodded at Price as he went on his way.

Price entered the room to see MacTavish propped halfway up in bed, shoulders heaving slightly as if with recent exertion. The swelling on his face had gone down, leaving the ugly bruising to remain. His cheeks were slightly flushed and his eyes had a glossy, feverish look. He was down to one IV drip and was no longer tethered to anything else, so he could move around more easily if he wished. However, judging by the look on his face, he'd already had enough movement for one day.

"All right, Soap – worn out your welcome already?"

"Price," was all Soap could manage for the moment.

"Heard you're up and about."

Soap winced as he shifted around on the bed, trying to get settled. "Against my better judgement."

Price lowered himself into the bedside chair, stifling a groan. He did feel better today, but was still quite sore.

That got Soap's attention. "Oi, looks like you've been through the wringer. What's the score this time?"

Price sighed as he went through the inventory. "A concussion, cracked ribs, internal bleeding – bastard kicked me while I was down. Plus a face only a mother could love, though not quite as pretty as yours is right now."

Soap grimaced. "I haven't seen it yet – I'm not sure I want to look."

"If it's any consolation, it's not as bad as last time."

MacTavish grumbled, "We should post a sign like they do in the factories – counting the days since our last accident."

Price laughed derisively, wincing. "I can't seem to make it more than a week."

Soap's expression softened. "How are you doing, old man – really?"

"A whole hell of a lot better after you showed up a few days ago."

"You'll live, right?" said Soap as he continued his restless squirming. What had begun as a gentle smile crumpled into a mask of pain with a whispered curse. He was referring to the day of Price's rescue. After dragging him out of that frozen hell, battered, bruised and thin, that curt brush-off was the most they could get from him when questioned about his well-being. After what he'd been through, Price had made it clear that the subject wasn't open to discussion.

Price sighed again. "You, of all people, deserved better than that."

It's all right – " Soap began, looking up at him.

"No. All that talk about taking inventory, knowing it might be your last day – I'd done that before we'd ever gone after Shepherd. If you hadn't come when you did..." his voice trailed off in hesitation, until he finally met his eyes. "I was about to top myself," he said, flatly making his confession.

Soap's eyes widened, but he said nothing.

As the growing silence threatened to stifle them both, Price settled back into his chair to tell him what had happened. He owed him at least that much...

* * *

**_PRAGUE._ **

_A flock_ _of fluttering birds rose and fell over rolling waves of buildings with tall facades and soft, ornate curves; a mosaic of easter-egg pastels topped with red-tiled roofs and green church domes. The largest ancient castle in the world presided over this legacy of empires,_ _centuries of architecture left largely untouched by two world wars._ _Dark gothic spires stabbed fang-like into the sky, standing guard over a city that, at first glance, looked like something out of a storybook. The spell was broken at street level with graffiti tags, too many cars and too few parking spaces. C_ _athedral bells rang in welcome to the visitors that flocked to this tourist magnet of Eastern Europe._

" _Tracking – I'm on them," said a voice with a cockney accent, as the camera zoomed in from high above, into the bustling street, to zero in on two men in particular._

 _A few streets over, on an eventual collision course with the pair, a man in jeans,_ _boots and a black leather coat wound his way purposefully through the crowds. A black knit watch cap covered his short brown hair, graying at the edges._ _Hi_ _s face, lined with age and experience, cheeks pitted with a few acne scars, was ruggedly handsome. Keen gray eyes continuously scanned not only the street, but the windows and rooftops as well. It was a habit, as natural to him as breathing._

 _The air was heavy with the smell of recent rain. The weather had been unseasonably cool_ _, requiring the warmer layers that were quite convenient for concealing weapons and communications equipment. It also allowed for the hat, which while unnecessary to hide his earpiece, helped Price retain at least some of his vanity._

_The breeze felt cold and strange on his naked face. In order to not be easily recognized, he had taken the one step necessary to enact a major change in his appearance, and shaved off the beard and sideburns that he had worn for many years. He wasn't looking forward to the part where it all started growing back._

_Price took a seat at a sidewalk cafe and ordered a coffee from a waitress that fortunately spoke English. Crossing his legs, he unfolded a Czech newspaper and pretended to read._

_His_ _earpiece came to life. "He's in position."_

 _When_ _Shepherd had come calling to assemble Task Force 141, they had all jumped at the chance. Soap was on official loan from the Regiment, and welcomed the change of scenery and a the chance to work with other special forces operators from the US, Canada, Australia and New Zealand. Price, now in mandatory retirement from the SAS, had been working the Circuit for a few years on close protection jobs – for those who could afford it. He traveled to exotic locations, rode in limousines, had his favorite_ _M1911_ _pistol as a backup and an MP5K under his jacket._

_He had been bored to tears._

_They'd be working together again, and with other familiar faces from the Regiment, such as Riley. And they certainly couldn't say no to the pay._

_Acc_ _ording to Shepherd's intel, Makarov was using his safehouse in Prague to lie low after the London job – and that he had something big in the works, something even more ambitious. No matter. Their orders, with the Czech government's (deniable) blessing were simple: capture or kill._

_Task Force 141 members mingled among the civilians. Most were impersonating other tourists. Some were in overhead positions; MacTavish was high above in a bell tower, his_ _suppressed_ _HK G36C_ _resting on its bipod beside him. Along with him was Ghost, his face ever-hidden by the skull balaclava, the blue glow of the laptop screen reflected in his sunglasses, surrounded by disapproving stone angels and leering gargoyles. Price caught himself smiling at the image._

 _They couldn't believe their luck; not only had the intel been solid, but they had caught sight of Makarov and some of his men on the very first day. They continued to observe for the time being, taking their measure; the right opportunity had yet to present itself. Though Makarov wasn't beneath skulking in the slums, he had chosen a busy, upscale area. The local attractions in the_ _Mal_ _á_ _Strana_ _district ensured a plentiful supply of human shields. This wasn't going to be easy._

_Price took a sip of coffee and stifled a yawn as he continued to scan the activity around him. This was the bulk of the work on these sorts of jobs, the waiting. As a sniper, he had learned the true meaning of patience, and it served him well now. His eyes sifted through the masses on the other side of the busy avenue._

_A woman suddenly filled his vision. She was blond and in her late thirties or early forties. She was tastefully dressed and made up, attractive in a mature way. She held a panting Pomeranian in her arms. She smiled. She must have seen his bemused expression and taken it as an invitation to chat. Sure enough, she started to speak to him in Czech._

_**Bollocks.** _ _Price didn't understand a word. He mustered an anemic smile. "Uhh..."_

 _Soap's voice piped up in his ear. "_ _Fox Two_ _, HVTs approaching your position from the southwest."_

_Price leaned back casually in his chair, keeping any outward sign of interest at bay. He flipped the page of his paper as he looked over it, past the now-confused woman, watching Lev and Makarov pass by on the opposite side of the street. Right on time, and as described: black jackets, jeans, with Makarov sporting a light green shirt, Lev's a dark brown._

_Makarov was buying something from a street vendor. Price was surprised that he was conducting his errands himself, rather than putting his men to the task._ _**How very egalitarian of him,** _ _he thought._

_All sarcasm aside, it was rather odd. Makarov had lived long enough to compile a list of deeds that the devil himself would be proud of, and he hadn't accomplished that by being careless. The respective governments backing the 141 were not the only ones howling for his blood, not by a long shot. Besides murdering other Russians, Makarov and his men had tangled with the likes of Turkey, Israel and Pakistan. Yet somehow, they were still breathing - for now. Price had to hand it to him, he did have an almost mysterious knack for survival._

_Finishing the transaction, the woman at the stand flashed the two Russians a winning smile._ _**Darling, if you only knew.** _ _The pair drifted back out into the flow of pedestrians, blue plastic shopping bags in their hands._

 _**Wolves prowling the herd with impunity.** _ _His eyes narrowed._ _**Not for much longer.** _

_The woman in front him spoke again. He glanced at her, seeing her confusion giving way to annoyance._

_Time to move. Taking a final sip of coffee, he tossed some money onto the table, the metal chair legs chattering on the stones as he rose. "Sorry, love, maybe later," he said, as he brushed past her._

_Whatever she said to his retreating back didn't sound very kind. The dog, sensing its mistress's anger, yapped along with her._

_The timing couldn't have been better, he didn't need any more of a scene to draw attention to himself._ _**Hell hath no fury,** _ _he thought,_ _suppressing his grin_ _as he began to tail them. "Moving east toward the marketplace...out," he reported._

 _The market was a riot of color. Between the fruit and vegetable stalls, the bouquets of flowers and bright red awnings, watching the two men weave through the shoppers was like watching grains of sand plunge through an hourglass._ _As he moved toward the corner, a mob began flooding in from a side street – a tour bus had just emptied out. Price immediately found himself adrift in a sea of badly-dressed humanity._ _**Shit.** _ _A heavy rumble and squeal of brakes announced an approaching tram._

" _They're right in front of me, but I can't get a shot," said Soap,_ _frustration edging his voice, his finger hovering near his rifle's trigger._ _"There's too many people."_

_The voices in his ear were being drowned out by the increasing noise, along with the squawks of protest as Price elbowed his way through the herd. The red-and-white tram cars hummed to a stop, blocking his view. The crowd thickened as people disembarked, with more waiting to get on. He fought to carve a path until he was at last around it, glancing quickly in all directions to again catch sight of the pair, who had vanished._

" _This is Fox One, just spotted them. Keep moving, take a left after the market," said Royce, who was acting as Price's partner._

_Price took the left and gave a nod of acknowledgment as he passed Royce, who was loitering outside a restaurant. Pretending to talk on his mobile phone, he bobbed his head in return. They both watched the men hang a right at the next block._

" _They've just turned north, on the east side of the canal. Moving up. Out," said Royce. With a flick of his glowing cigarette and a grind of his heel, he was gone – moving ahead to circle around the two. Price continued to tail them while keeping his distance._

" _Fox Two, stand by," said Ghost. "There's some sort of disturbance ahead of them – a fight..." his voice trailed off for a moment, as he watched the laptop screen, observing a miniature crowd with two men circling in the center of it. A siren began to wail immediately below their perch. MacTavish leaned over the stone railing to see a blue-striped white car labeled "M_ _Ě_ _STSK_ _Á_ _POLICIE" pushing its way through the traffic, lights flashing. Ghost panned the camera back to the the pair approaching the brawl. They must have heard it too; they paused, and after some brief discussion, changed course. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Riley muttered under his breath._

" _Fox Two, fall back – they're coming back down – fall back, acknowledge," said Soap._

" _Wilco," said Price, spinning around to backtrack._

" _Hurry up, Fox Two – they're almost at your position," MacTavish warned._

_Surrounded by open street, Price darted halfway down the block and did the best that he could to blend in – he inserted himself into a small group of people snapping photos of a statue. He turned his back to the Russians' direction and stared upward along with the tourists, hands in his pockets. Hopefully they wouldn't pass close by and notice the fact that, unlike the rest of the group, he wasn't Asian._

" _Stand by, Fox Two...they're now heading west across the bridge. Stand by...they're crossing the canal. All right, you're clear," said Soap._

_Price raised his eyebrows and sighed. "Roger that." He left the group of tourists, who were now eyeing him with suspicion, and started toward the bridge. His path was cut off by the approaching police car, now joined by another van. Lights flashing, they slowly cut through a snarl of traffic to turn up the corner. Delayed again, he waited, seething._

_Ghost groaned audibly. "They're heading north again – for the tunnel." This wasn't good news._

_It was bad enough that the city itself was a stony labyrinth. However, the pedestrian tunnel, which led the way underneath a large building, was a particularly weak spot in their surveillance. It was long, with multiple close-set buildings blocking the camera's view under the best conditions. Even after the two made their way through it, it would be a few minutes before Ghost would catch sight of them again._

_As Price crossed the bridge, trying to catch up, Ghost swore suddenly in his ear. "I've lost the feed – we're blind!"_

" _Steady, Ghost." The calm in MacTavish's voice settled over them, and_ _Price couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in his proteg_ _é_ _. "_ _Team two – are you in place?"_

" _Affirmative," Archer replied, sitting in a delivery van alongside the driver, Toad._

_The technical difficulties couldn't have come at a worse time; it would be very easy to lose them if he didn't get back on their trail again, and fast. Price spoke again. "Looks like we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way." He sped through the tunnel, dodging through the other people in the gloom, and finally caught a distant glimpse of the light green shirt and blue bags. "Back on them, they just turned west 30 meters in front of me, past the cathedral."_

" _Right. Team two, start moving north to flank them," said Soap. "Team three, keep heading southwest. Have you crossed the canal, over?"_

" _Roger that, affirmative," replied Scarecrow._

_Hurrying, Price reached the corner...and stared into a winding maze of narrow streets, creamy stucco walls and red rooftops. They were nowhere in sight. He dashed down a small side street and had a look around – nothing. And currently, no eyes in the sky to pick their trail back up. He clenched his jaw in frustration. What had started out so well was now circling the drain. He headed sideways again for another look. Nothing._

" _Teams two and three - does anyone have a visual yet, over?" said Soap._

" _Negative," was Archer's brief reply._

" _That's a negative," said Ozone._

" _What about you, Fox One?"_

" _Negative," huffed Royce. The police fiasco had forced him to take the long way around._

" _Stand by - the camera feed's back." A long pause. "I see them," said Ghost, the excitement in his voice immediately dissolving back into outrage. "Fuck it! I've lost it again – what the hell is 'appening here? Anyway, Fox Two – if you hurry two blocks to your west and proceed north, they should cross directly in front of you, out."_

_Price jogged down the two blocks as directed and slowed his pace as he moved upward, anticipating the Russians' arrival. As promised, there they were, a block in front of him. He hung back, his presence becoming more conspicuous in the quieter side streets._

_He edged around a row of parked cars, watching them move down a somewhat narrow alley which contained the rear entrances of some shops. The nearest one was receiving a delivery. It was being unloaded by a small handful of men, none of whom were paying the slightest attention to anything but their current task._

_The alley was full of pallets and handtrucks laden with boxes. It further narrowed at the end as it passed between two closer buildings, not unlike a funnel. Makarov and Lev passed by the clutter and into the long, narrow alleyway._

" _Fox Two, do you see them?"_

_Price keyed his mic, indicating an affirmative but necessarily silent response._

" _...can we take them?"_

_Price keyed his mic again._

_Time to spring the trap. The satisfaction in MacTavish's voice was undisguised. "All teams move in – nice and easy."_

_The shadows in the alley deepened as he passed the truck. Price could feel his flesh crawling,_ _his senses sharpening into a state of hyper-alertness._ _Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder. The delivery men were nowhere to be seen, though he could hear their voices in the rear doorway of the shop, now hidden from view. No one else was present. Except for the one, there were no signs of life at any of the other entrances. There were no doors or windows immediately near him; the narrow part of the alley had none, it was hemmed in by solid walls on either side. Nothing except the odd pile of litter and a few puddles._

_Just beyond the edge of the wall, he watched the retreating backs of the two men. They chatted casually as they walked down the dim, narrow passage, oblivious to their peril, outlined by the bright shaft of light that signified the end of it. Price found the image strangely appropriate._

_He ducked behind a dumpster, drawing his M1911 and screwing on the suppressor with efficient, practiced movements. He released the safety catch. The hammer was cocked, a round already in the chamber. Opportunity was knocking – he could do this; he could quickly move in, slot them both and disappear around the corner, mission accomplished. A mad dog put down at last, and not a tear would be shed for either one of them._

_Years of experience and training set in to calm the quickening of his pulse, tempering the familiar thrill of the hunt with cold resolve. The gun at his side, he began to stalk after them. The sound of his steps on the wet cobblestones was masked by the steady rattle of water dripping into a downspout. The light reflected in the puddles ahead rippled with the light drizzle that had just begun to fall._

_He hadn't much time. They could be wearing body armor. He needed_ _to get close enough_ _to deliver headshots to each man, and he couldn't afford to miss. Striding forward to close the distance, he raised his weapon. Took a deep breath of cool, damp air. A nearby car alarm began to shriek. With his sights trained on Makarov, he rested his finger on the trigger. Started to squeeze._ _**Game over.** _

_He froze – the two had stopped walking._

_Makarov turned to look at him. Except, the man wasn't Makarov. The man_ _**smiled.** _

_The moment of horrified realization_ _at his error_ _, the feeling of the ground about to open up and swallow him whole, lasted only a heartbeat. He tensed, about to whirl around to face the_ _sudden presence behind hi_ _m_ _, but never made it._ _With_ _a loud snap, a jolt of electricity sent a firestorm of pain through his body, which went rigid, then crumpled. His pistol clattered to the ground._

 _Multiple hands grabbed him, tearing at his clothing, rummaging through his pockets. A man's smirking face loomed_ _directly_ _in front of his own. There were grunts and the stink of old cigarette smoke mingled with cheap aftershave and stale sweat. Then, a wrenching sound and the acrid smell of the tape being wrapped around his mouth._

_Hearing the scuffle, MacTavish was shouting in his ear. "Fox Two, what's happening – do you read?" His voice was coming in gusts – he was racing downstairs. "Talk to me Price! Pri-"_

_Soap's voice was ripped away as they located his mic and transmitter. A hood was yanked down over his head. He heard the crunch of breaking plastic. Quickly coming to himself, Price began to lash out at his attackers._

_T_ _hey held his arms fast, so he windmilled his legs, kicking savagely at them. He heard thumping and rattling around him as he struggled. He threw his weight around, trying to knock them off balance. They were all bumping into boxes, sharp edges and what felt like a rubbish bin, showering them with paper and other debris._ _He was rewarded by a crash, a yelp of pain and what sounded like cursing as he successfully kicked away one of his assailants._

 _Arms were trying to wrap themselves around his thighs. Right, left, right – he pumped his feet like pistons, twisting free from their grasp and making hard, satisfying contact with his boot heel. There was a_ _**whoof** _ _of someone who'd just had the wind kicked out of him. More angry shouts; other voices shushin_ _g, urge_ _nt._

_He kept throwing his weight forward, down and side to side, trying to press the advantage. But he felt an arm tighten around his neck in a chokehold and more arms grab his legs as he was pulled into doorway, and the entire group tumbled into a heap onto the dusty floor._

_B_ _eneath the gag he roared like an animal – heart hammering, mind racing, every instinct screaming to escape. He couldn't move; they were sitting on him, holding his body and limbs to the floor like a vise. A_ _chill of icy fear washed through him when_ _he felt the sting of a needle._

_**No!** _

_His chest heaved and his muscles strained as he put forth another fierce effort to get them off of him. What felt like someone's knees ground into him harder, pinning him even more painfully. He panted through his nostrils like a maddened bull, sucking the musty fabric against his face to smother him further as he fought for_ _air_ _, bringing his rising panic to a crescendo._

_It was suddenly hard to think – he shook his head, or at least imagined that he did, in an effort to clear the thick fog settling upon his senses. He felt himself blinking to stop his eyes from rolling upward. The floor felt like it was slowly rising and tilting beneath him, as if he were at sea._

_His muffled cries faltered into silence as his breathing slowed. He heard them talking amongst themselves._ _Their voices sounded strange, distorted, echoing from far away. The words unknown, yet strangely familiar. Russian._

_Seeking payback for Zakhaev, they had finally come to collect._

_**They got me!** _

_The brief burst of adrenalin wasn't nearly enough, not even close._

_As the drug raced through him, he felt his struggles weakening, t_ _he painful crush of bodies on him fading into numbness. Beneath the hood, his eyelids drooped._

_**Can't let them do this... Think - stay awake... stay...** _

_His head lolled uncontrollably as he_ _felt them hauling him up from the floor, holding him underneath his arms, his hands now tied behind his back. He was dimly aware of the toes of his boots skipping and bumping along the floor as they dragged him._

_**No... stop...** _

_His awareness further dwindled to brief sensations: the sound of an idling engine. The smell of exhaust._

_**No...** _

_A thump as he hit the floor again._

_A door slammed. The floor hummed. He felt movement... then he felt nothing at all._

* * *

MacTavish's face was a picture of anguish and regret.

"We got there as fast as we could – Ozone and Scarecrow were damn near run down by a lorry on their way to the alley. We found bins and boxes strewn all over. Royce found your broken transmitter in a puddle, and as I walked toward him, I kicked something lying in the rubbish. It was your pistol."

"There was nothing you could have done, Soap," said Price gently. "It was a setup, of course, and now we know who it was. My head as payment for Makarov's cooperation." His eyes drifted away with his thoughts as his gaze drew inward. "We were all just pawns on the chessboard."

"Shepherd. I wish he were still alive -" Price looked up at him. "- so I could kill him again, and take my time with it."

Price sighed and shook his head. "Hell might not be big enough for both him and Zakhaev, on top of all the other bastards we sent there. They'd better be saving Makarov a parking spot." That got a smile out of Soap, breaking the tension.

Soap's breathing had slowed, and although he had settled into his pillows a bit, Price noticed that his expression was still tight with discomfort. Offering distraction, he went on with his story...


	7. Threshold

_Right after he awoke in the cold, stinking gulag, Price found himself being worked over by professionals._

_A sheet of icy water slammed into his face – he gasped, ripped back to cruel consciousness. It poured down his naked chest and pooled around his bare feet. Shivering violently,_ _his breath billowing clouds of freezing mist_ _, he grunted at the stout slap in the face that followed; droplets of water from his hair sprayed the wall. Plasticuffs bit_ _into his wrists behind him._

_He didn't remember much of what happened after that. But he remembered the room._

_The rusty bars, the stone scratched and scrawled with centuries of graffiti in multiple languages. The high arched ceiling that served to amplify the noise below._ _The stains streaking the walls. A chair in the middle. Nearby tables handy for various tools and other implements. Other chairs nearby for the audience. The dank smell was a mixture of corroded metal, damp stone, piss, old blood and fear._

_The men holding him were Spetsnaz. The skill they demonstrated told him as much. These weren't interrogations so much as a running commentary of how they didn't appreciate his role in the maiming and eventual death of Imran Zakhaev. This room was_ _just_ _the setting for their particular brand of brutality._

_With alarming frequency, he would be dragged from that room and tossed in a exhausted, quivering heap on the cold stone floor of his cell. They asked him a few questions in English, but barely seemed to know it themselv_ _es. T_ _hey had questions printed on cards, and one man had them on a silk handkerchief. What little Russian Price did understand he wasn't going to admit to. However, e_ _xtracting information never appeared to be their goal; it was almost done as a half-hearted afterthought or a sideshow for the main event._

_They didn't take it as far as inflicting major damage. They were like a well-fed cat after a mouse, toying with him but not breaking him. They would let him recover just enough to be fit for further torture, and fed him just enough to leave him gaunt without truly starving him. In his more lucid moments, he wondered what they were saving him for._

_He had tried to keep track of the days by observing the guards' shifts, for he hadn't seen daylight since Prague. Kept in an isolated cell far from other inmates, he had hungrily devoured every detail, at first: who was working, when they worked, who_ _m t_ _hey spoke to. Their weapons, equipment and rank. Every sight, sound and smell was catalogued._ _However, the forced sleep deprivation soon put a stop to that._

_He paced his cell when he was able, counted, recited long-forgotten passages. He reached back into his memories of Selection and training in Hereford, when they'd been visited by former POWs_ _who'd shared their_ _stories. But for all that he did to prevent it, the thin ice of hope protecting his_ _sanity was beginning to fracture; the spreading cracks allowing dark fantasies of despair and death to bubble and seep to the surface._

_The days, and weeks, began to blend into one another. But there was one particular day that stood out, one he would clearly remember...and try_ _so desperately to forget._

* * *

_The room again. Blindfolded, stripped, hands and feet bound to the chair. Adrenalin surging, chest heaving in anticipation of what was to come._

_Guards stepped up on either side of him. The chair was tilted backwards. Grabbing his hair, they jerked his head back and_ _pulled the blindfold taut. Water poured down on the cl_ _oth over his face in a constant stream. The saturated cloth molded itself over his nose and mouth, preventing him from taking a breath and intr_ _oducing an occasional drip up his nose and down the back of his throat._

_He was effectively being strangled. Corded muscles rippled and bulged under goose-pimpled skin; his hands clawed the empty air behind him as he strained against his bonds. His pulse thundered in his ears, setting the pace for the frantic thought screaming through his mind:_

_**Can'tBreatheCan'tBreatheCan'tBreatheCan't –** _

_He tried to pull his head aside, out of the flow. Fingers entwined in his hair kept his head exactly where it was. He knew this game, but it didn't help him. His treacherous body was reacting in the only way it knew how: by clamping his throat shut, causing him to gag uncontrollably. His heart was beating dangerously fast now, and soon it would give out altogether. Every nerve ending was raw and alive with the_ _primal terror_ _of asphyxiation; the chair creaked as he pulled at the restraints with all of his strength, the bindings at his wrists and ankles sawing bloody tracks into his flesh._

_**ThisisitI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtodie –** _

_The flow stopped, and the dripping wet fabric was peeled up just enough to allow him to breathe again. He slumped in the chair like a rag doll, wheezing and retching._

_They started again. Stopped. Started. Stopped...started... His head swam, and his heart felt like it would burst from his chest. He felt himself begin to float away._

_" **D** **ostatochno."**_

_The world righted itself as the chair legs and his bare feet hit the floor again._

_He sat for a while, gulping deep coughing lungfuls of air, trying to quiet his pounding heart._ _His head dangled limply to one side, water dripping from his hair, his bound hands behind the chair the only thing keeping his exhausted body upright. He drifted for a while, halfway into the oblivion that he craved. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he could hear the Russians moving around him and talking among themselves. They pulled the soaked cloth from his face._

_To his horror, his captors were now wearing rubber boots, aprons, and heavy rubber gloves. And he was now soaking wet. That could only mean one thing. A thrill of fear surged through him, his pulse and breathing quickening once again._

_His teeth clenched in a gurgling cry as the electric current shot through him. His body arched and shook in pulsating waves of agony._ _He could both hear and feel the sizzling hum from whatever it was that they were using. It stopped and he sagged, barely conscious now, in the chair. Now free of the electrically-induced paralysis, he still couldn't catch his breath. He could feel his heart flopping irregularly, like a fish out of water, a dull ache in his chest sharpening into burning pain. He jerked rigidly upright as they began once more._ _The edges of his vision darkened, and then he felt himself falling backward down a deep dark well, into nothingness._

_He heard something, from far away, like insistent knocking on a giant door. A slow, heavy, purposeful pounding:_ _**boom...boom.** _

_The pounding got faster and lighter now. He felt like someone was pushing him in his chest, repeatedly shoving him backwards from something, trying to block his way. He heard angry voices shouting in the distance, but he couldn't understand them._

_He drew in a sudden, long, deep breath, like a diver emerging from the water's surface. He was racked with a fit of coughing. There was a sudden push at his shou_ _lder; a cold hard surface r_ _olled against the side of his face as his body convulsed, releasing a hot flood of vomit. Warmth bloomed around his outstretched arm and the back of his limp hand. Rough fingers fishhooked into his mouth to sweep out any remains, and he was released to flop bonelessly onto his back, a brief starburst in the darkness as the back of his head struck the floor. The voices got louder, and figures swam around him in a gray haze. Dimly, he heard a voice he hadn't heard before:_

" _Clean him up."_

* * *

_When Price opened his eyes, he_ _was lying on a cot, under a heavy blanket. A portable heater glowed nearby. A Russian soldier was leaning over him. In his thirties, he was tall and thin with short blond hair, gray eyes and sharp angular features._

" _Feeling better?" he asked, his face impassive, not truly concerned one way or the other._

_Price answered him with a dull stare._

" _Of course you are."_ _This was the same voice he'd heard before._ _The man picked up the nylon duffel bag next to him and slung it over his shoulder – medical supplies peeked through the half-open zipper. "Get dressed. We're moving you downstairs." He strode out of the room. The metal door slammed shut with a_ _ **clang.**_

_Price sat up, his body heavy. He noticed a tiny puncture wound in the crook of his arm, and rubbed it curiously. He didn't remember that, or being brought here._ _Scrubbing a hand through the thick stubble on his face, he turned to the bundle of clothing on the cot next to his. It was a set of prisoners' wear: denim trousers and jacket with an inmate number on it,_ _a plain shirt, canvas shoes, and a black watch cap. He put these on, and didn't wait long before the man and two guards came to collect him._

* * *

_**Dostatochno [** _ **_достаточно]:_ ** _Enough_


	8. Inquisitor

_T_ _he blond man sat at the desk in what appeared to be some sort of office, a thick folder and a steaming cup of tea in front of him. He had introduced himself as_ _**Grach**_ _. Like everywhere else in this frigid hellhole, the room was dimly lit, save for a beam of sickly gray light that filtered through a small barred window near the high ceiling. This only served to darken the hollows and sharpen the planes of an already severe face. He opened the folder and began leafing through the contents. Price sat before him in a gray steel armchair, flanked by three guards._

" _C_ _aptain John Price. Born and raised in London. I went to school there, you know – I studied medicine at St George's." He added this aside as if he were chatting with an old friend, and continued with Price's_ _ **curriculum vitae**_ _: "Formerly of the British Army, formerly of 22_ _nd_ _SAS. The family business just wasn't for you, you had to be the soldier. Dear old Dad wasn't too happy, was he? But that's okay. You have to love what you do, right?" His face finally showed some signs of animation, with a lift of his eyebrows and a quirk of his mouth. "I know I do." This got a few sideways glances from the others. He flipped the folder shut and rose to slowly walk toward him._

" _Northern Ireland...the Balkans, Lebanon..." He paused for emphasis, eyebrows raised. "...the Ukraine." He stood next to him, shaking his head. "You fought your way out of some tough places, but even you couldn't escape old age._ _ **Tsk**_ _." He smiled and ran his fingers through Price's thinning hair._

_He took hold of Price's jaw and twisted his head up to look at him. He thumbed down one of his lower eyelids with the casual disregard usually reserved for livestock. "Color's back, vital signs are good..." He released him and returned to his teacup. "Can't have you checking out early, can we?" He leaned up against the desk, long legs stretched out in front of him. He took a sip of tea, his sharp Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed._

" _They sent me to look after you, and a good thing, too. The boys...they can get carried away sometimes," he said with a rueful shrug. There were a few low chuckles from the sidelines, which were silenced by a quick glance. He turned away to step toward a table at one side of the room, surveying its contents with mild interest. "In medical school, I learned to truly appreciate what a fascinating machine the human body is. I never did graduate, though – I could never quite master the part about doing no harm. Still," he continued as he picked up a pair of pliers and studied the tips closely, frowning, then_ _recoiling_ _in disgust. "...the training really comes in handy sometimes." He set them back down._

 _Price's eyes darted sideways under his lowered eyelids, stealing a look at the other items on the table. A hammer. A set of wire cutters._ _A utility knife._ _A small propane torch. An electric drill. A circular saw. A large rasp – a Russian favorite, for filing down teeth. Clear plastic sheeting, heavy-duty bin liners, some folded rubber aprons and a box of disposable gloves._ _There was a tray of medical supplies there too: a red plastic needle container, military 'CAT' tourniquets, IV sets, suture kits. But not for healing – for prolonging the inevitable, and possibly worse. Packets of needles and syringes in various sizes, and vials of drugs whose purpose he could only guess. His heart was pounding._

" _Now, John," Tilting his head in mock hurt, Grach spoke to him as if he were admonishing a naughty schoolboy. "What do you take me for?"_

 _Setting his teacup down, he appr_ _oached Price's chair. He nodded and two of the guards leaned on his wrists, pinning them. The largest man came up behind him and planted a meaty pair of hands on his shoulders. Price's breathing automatically quickened; his body was betraying him again._ _He_ _noticed the rings tattooed on one man's knuckles, causing an idle thought to fly to his defense:_ _**the only difference between the guards and the criminals is a set of keys.** _ _Grach was standing directly in front of him now. He squatted to stare him right in the face – he was almost close enough to kiss him. His voice was soft, his tone calm and reasonable. Under other circumstances, it might have been reassuring._

" _All that's really not necessary, you know. With the right knowledge and skill, it doesn't take much to bring a man to his knees."_

 _H_ _e took hold of Price's little finger and bent it backward, squeezing the nail bed hard._ _H_ _owls of pain shattered the silence._ _Just as he thought the bone would snap, Grach released him, leaving him shaking._ _He shrugged. "See what I mean?"_

" _You've been with us for some time now. But I trust you have not been too...damaged." He thrust himself up from the floor, his voice growing louder. "You're not a stupid man, y_ _ou know I didn't attend to you out of kindness._ _So you must be wondering: what are they waiting for?_ _"_

 _Fighting to calm himself,_ _Price kept his face an expressionless mask._

" _The last of Bravo_ _Team._ _The best saved for last. And we are saving you, John Price," he said, wagging a finger at him. "We're going to have a party," he paused, his thin face twisting into an ugly sneer. "...and you're the guest of honor."_

 _Price focused on keeping his eyes downward,_ _trying to slow his breathing._ _He couldn't quiet his mind completely though:_ _**Nice speech, you twat. A regular Bond villain, this one** _ _._

" _An eye for an eye."_ _He slowly circled the chair, looking Price up and down. "Why not an arm for an arm? I'm sure Makarov would agree," he nodded in the direction of the table full of tools. " – and it could definitely be arranged. He's busy at the moment, but he'll be here soon enough. He's simply_ _ **dying**_ _to meet you. I'm sure you're dying to meet him." He snickered at his own joke, and some of the men risked quiet laughter, which went unchecked._

" _Oh, your mind is racing now. Why would Makarov, of all people, go anywhere near a prison? You can't argue that he belongs in one." He chuckled again. "So why would he come willingly, and without fear? You'd be surprised at just how many people see things his way, including the men guarding this fortress. Makarov has nothing worry about – unlike you."_

_All of the guards were wearing cold, satisfied smiles now. One of them shifted his hold on Price's wrist, allowing Grach access to his forearm. He paused for a moment to take in the sight of Price's missing fingernails and the dark scabbed bruising around his wrists. Grach winced, hissing in false sympathy._

" _Looks like things got off to a rough start._ _They went too far._ _But I'm here now, to make sure it won't happen again." He slid his hand upward along the top of Price's forearm until he found just the right spot. The cold gray eyes bored into him. "I'll be with you – every step of the way." He ground his thumb into the pressure point. Price grunted as_ _pain_ _streaked though the nerves of his arm._

" _His_ _ **arm**_ _, Price?_ _ **Nice**_ _shooting," he smirked. "Trigger finger got too itchy? What a disappointing moment for your mentor. All that time and effort wasted."_

_The pain shooting down his arm was like white fire. Price could feel the cold sweat beading on his forehead, his ragged breaths hissing between clenched teeth._

" _He was something, wasn't he? Tough old man, MacMillian. Even crippled, he was still hard as nails." This time, the smile was one of grudging admiration. "I heard he put up quite a fight."_

_**I fucking knew it.** _

_He'd never forget that particular knock at the door. When the MI5 agents had sat him down, he had felt like he was outside of himself, watching the man at the table stare numbly at the photographs being slid in front of him. Watching his own stunned face as they played the_ _police_ _video: Captain MacMillian, lying on his kitchen floor in Rowardennan. The room's contents smashed and scattered everywhere. Flashbulbs flickering over the glistening carnage, unseeing eyes staring at his own blood drying on the tile. The investigation had gone nowhere. Possible payback for old business in Northern Ireland, they'd said. But he'd known better._

_A bead of sweat dribbled down the side of his face. Hot sparks were shooting through his fingertips. His hand was going numb. As he panted through it, Price couldn't stop the growl from rising in his throat._

" _Fff...ffuuu...fuuhh..." Grach smirked and released him._

" _The SAS are second only to Spetsnaz. They have my respect. But you know what? In the end, they're just like everybody else. It doesn't matter who you are – when you show a man his own guts, the reaction is much the same." Another smiling tilt of the head. "They told me he screamed like a_ _ **suka**_ _."_

_Price's jaw muscles were quivering. However, the bastard had already turned his back on him._

_Grach strolled around the room, taking long lazy strides, apparently lost in thought. "You know, the cold here lends itself well to preservation..." He turned to face him. "I'm thinking that what's left of you could be kept around long enough to show MacTavish, once we catch up to him – and we will."_

_He was trembling now, the rage boiling upward. He burned with the thought of having his hands free, and of just how quickly and violently he could wipe that smirk off his face._

_**You...fucking...CU-** _

_Grach was suddenly right back in his face, savoring his response. He cocked an eyebrow. "Ah. Good to see you're still in there."_

_Price cursed his own foolishess. Despite his training, he'd let himself get reeled right in. Even worse, he knew this was no idle threat._

_Grach just stared at him. The guards shifted uncomfortably._

_Price focused on the center of his forehead, avoiding those eyes, going back to what he'd been taught: be the gray man, fade into the background. He concentrated on emptying his mind, ignoring his swirling emotions. He'd already fucked up badly. He'd given Grach exactly what he was looking for._

_Grach's voice was a low whisper. "So quiet...penny for your thoughts?" Price kept staring at his chosen focal point, nostrils flaring and shoulders still heaving, but silent. Grach's eyebrows shot up again. "No?" He rolled his eyes. "Let me guess – you 'cannot answer that question'." He shrugged. "No problem." He stood up, aiming his smile at the guards now._

_They leaned on his shoulders and wrists with their full body weight, solidly pinning him to the chair._

_Grach grabbed a handful of pencils from the holder on the desktop. He approached Price and began to slide a pencil between each of his fingers. A chill ran down Price's spine._

_**Pencils? What the hell -** _

_Squatting next to him, Grach slipped his own cool, dry palm under Price's, straightening the pencils between his fingers. He wrapped his long fingers around Price's hand, as if for a handshake. "There's no need for the silent treatment. After all, we're going to spend so much 'quality time' together," he said softly. He gave it a gentle squeeze._

_The pain, and disbelief, took Price's breath away. He shuddered,_ _gasping._

 _While still loosely clasping Price's hand, Grach curved the fingers of his other hand around to grip Price's shoulder. He leaned in close enough for Price to feel his hot breath on the side of his face. "You're really going to get to know me. You're really going to get to know yourself."_ _Grach's face wore a small, almost wistful smile. "And I think you're going to find that you're really not so different...from anybody else." He gripped Price's hand again, suddenly and savagely._

_Price was falling down the dark well again. He heard a man screaming…_

* * *

He knew this had to be difficult to listen to, and it wasn't much easier to say.

MacTavish had been listening in silent, rapt attention. Aside from his reactions, Price had noticed the distress creeping into his face as well. His brow furrowed as he frowned, studying him.

"Soap...when was the last time you were given something for pain?"

Before he had finished asking, Misha reappeared with a syringe.

"It's been too long, I'm afraid. This should make you more comfortable for a while," he said, injecting the contents into Soap's IV port. "But we're soon going to have to switch to something that doesn't make you so sleepy – you need to be moving around more."

"I know, I know...but I'll take it while I can get it."

Price chuckled knowingly. "Smart man."

"You should be feeling better in a few minutes," the doctor reassured him. He checked the IV, the plastic roll clamp rattling as he followed the tubing down to the injection site in the back of Soap's hand. He grunted his approval and departed.

The air again grew heavy with the lingering silence. Soap's serious expression returned. "I'm sorry," he murmured, clearly unsure of what else to say.

Price leveled his gaze at him. "Don't be. You're the reason I'm still here."

Taking a deep breath, he continued with his tale...

* * *

_**Grach [** _ **_грач]:_ ** _Rook (a type of crow)._


	9. The Gulag

_Early morning. The same hard mattress, the same rough musty-smelling blanket, the same dim cell. As always, he kept his eyes shut in the quiet moments before the first shift came to wake him up; though his body was imprisoned in this small space, his drowsy mind was still yet free to roam the fields of his subconscious. But today was different. He felt rested, and utterly calm. He finally understood it now: the true liberation that comes with having nothing left to lose._

_He didn't know how long he'd been here; his perception of time had been lost in the maelstrom of pain, fear, exhaustion and humiliation. His full beard had returned, he'd been here long enough for that at least. No one was coming._ _No one even knew where he was._ _The Ultranationalists had him, and there was only one way he'd be leaving this place._

 _Being prepared to die was part of being who he was. However,_ _his story was now about to end in an act of vengeance over the events of five years ago, by a man he'd never even met._

 _He'd seen the newspaper article and had dismissed Makarov's words as a rant – until MacMillian's body was discovered by his wife._ _His men had been watching MacMillian's house near Loch Lomond, probably for weeks, and had waited for her to leave._ _How would they_ _come after_ _MacTavish? Having spent much of his childhood in the council estates of Glasgow, Soap had developed a set of eyes in the back of his head at an early age. Would it be enough? The 141 would keep him deployed for a long time. But when things settled down and he returned home to Elgin, then what?_

 _He w_ _as powerless to do anything now, except trust in MacTavish's own considerable abilities. As for himself, h_ _e would probably wind up in a shallow grave, or in an incinerator, and no one would ever know of his fate. They might just dump him into the sea. As for Grach's threat to preserve his remains, he couldn't dismiss that out of hand. At first he'd pushed the thought out of his mind, but then thought better of it. The simmering anger was starting its cancerous creep, eroding his newfound serenity. He welcomed it like an old friend. He needed it now, to fuel his resolve for what needed to be done._

 _Lately they'd left him alone for the most part. He'd even received additional food and regained some of the weight he'd lost. He wasn't a fool, this wasn't a hopeful sign. It was merely Grach fulfilling his stated purpose. The healthier he was, the longer they could draw things out. He'd had more than enough time to imagine what that might entail. They'd kept it clean up to this point, but that would soon change._ _What was on the table in the office said it all. W_ _ith Makarov's arrival, t_ _hey'd strap him down, glove up and get to work. Grach would be there beside him – to whisper in his ear, to show him all his skill and inventiveness, and to keep him alive. Nothing would be off the menu, and the end would be a long time in coming. They would carve him up, body and mind, piece by piece._

_He still had a choice. He might be damned already, but he wasn't about to die on his knees for the pleasure of Zakhaev's lapdog._

_His cell was too well-monitored, offering neither the time nor the means to complete this final_ _mission_ _. It had to be during a transfer._

_Somewhere in the prison, in someone's sidearm or rifle, was a bullet that belonged to him. Finding it was a matter of opportunity and timing. They had made the mistake of letting him know of his temporary value. So they wouldn't try to kill him outright, not at first, which meant two things: he'd have to go big, and he might have the chance to take at least one of them with him._

_He dearly hoped it would be that smug fucking Grach._

_He inhaled deeply, blinking open his eyes. The mingled stink of moldy basement, urine and sewer gas now seemed sweet somehow, knowing each breath was closer to being his last. He lay on his back, his gaze slowly traveling the graffiti's path up to the ceiling, ticking off the scrawled inventory of anguish, boredom and profanity. He felt something, then he heard it: the faraway thump of helicopter rotors. There was a rustle beside him. A rat was trundling along the base of the cell wall, bent on investigating a discarded bread crust._

_Thunder boomed in the distance. The rat scurried back into his hole. Lights flickered._

_**Boom.** _ _Closer this time. The normal background noise - the shouts, buzzers, the slamming doors – had fallen silent._

 _**That wasn't thunder.** _ _He sat up._

 _**BOOM.** _ _Dust spilled down in powdery trails from the ceiling._

 _A_ _ncient loudspeakers squealed to life, squawking fuzzy Russian that echoed up through the cell block's central atrium. The entire block then erupted into a bubbling cauldron of noise as every single man present began to shout at once._ _**BOOM.** _ _The normal sounds resumed and doubled. Alarms began to go off. Price rushed to the cell door, gripping the bars as he watched the chaos erupt._

 _**BOOM.** _ _Hunks of masonry began to plummet down into the atrium, resulting in frantic yelling and the sounds of stone smashing to pieces on the floor four stories below._

 _Boots pounded in nearby hallways; Ultranationalist_ _soldiers_ _were rushing to the central cages of the cellblock in a mad grab for weapons from the armory. A hellish chatter of countless guns being checked, loaded and cocked roared up the vast well of the atrium. Men boiled down the steel_ _walkways,_ _bristling with rifles, shotguns, riot shields and vicious intent. He stepped back from the door as they thundered past him. Price raised an arm and turned away from the blinding sweep of the searchlight. Along with his own, three additional shadows briefly leapt across the back wall. He turned back to see Grach, a sidearm strapped to his thigh, along with two guards. One was the huge red-haired man who had held him down in the chair. The other was one he'd not seen before; a dark-haired man with pale blue eyes. They were furious._

" _ **L**_ _ **itsom k'stene -"**_ _the dark-haired guard began, but Grach cut him off._

" _Assume the position, Price," he snapped._

 _Price obeyed, facing the wall and spreading his arms and legs, hands pressed up against the low curved stone ceiling. The door squealed open to admit the guards, who cuffed and shackled him._ _It_ _was a good thing that they couldn't see the look in his eyes, just before he averted his gaze to the floor, like a model prisoner._

_**Time to get into character.** _

* * *

_The shackles didn't last long. As he shuffled along, chains jangling, it was readily apparent that the group wanted him transferred in a hurry. He hadn't meant to trip...not really. They were not amused,_ _and let him know - using a rifle butt._ _White light and pain burst in his skull as the ground rushed up to meet him. As he lay facedown on the filthy_ _floor_ _, they stood over him, arguing in Russian. Warm blood trickled down his scalp._

" _Don't_ _act_ _stupid, Price," said Grach._ _"And this from someone who's being rescued from an attack. So ungrateful." At a word from him, and to Price's surprise, the shackles were removed. It seemed a small victory, until his bound hands were yanked up behind him._

 _**Fuck!** _ _He tried to get his knees up under him. A boot stomped into the small of his back, crushing him back down. A gloved hand splayed across his face, pressing his head to the floor. He grunted and writhed in pain as they continued to pull his hands upward at an unnatural, but well-practiced, angle._ _He felt like he would snap in half._

 _The hated voice was in his ear. "You remember this, don't you? Now...just in case you're thinking of doing anything rash..."_ _A cold gun muzzle pressed into his right palm. Price froze. "There are such things as nonlethal gunshot wounds. Do I need to give you a reminder, so that you don't give us any more trouble?" Price panted, eyes screwed shut against the flaring pain of old injuries, the dirt and grit of the floor biting into the skin of his cheek. If they fired, he'd never use that hand again – and never get his chance. He would be utterly theirs until the end. "There are also such things as surgery without anesthesia._ _**Bolshoi chelovek** _ _here will be happy to hold you down while I sew you up." A soft chuckle. "There will still be more than enough of you left for Makarov to enjoy." He gritted his teeth, waiting for the blast._

 _They released him into a shuddering heap. Price gave a heavy, shaky exhale as hands hooked under his shoulders and hauled him to his feet, bringing him face-to-face with Grach. "We understand each other now, yes?" Eyes downcast, wincing and trying to collect himself, Price_ _offered_ _a barely perceptible nod. "Good." Grach eyed the guards and jerked his head in the direction of the hallway._ _**"D** _ _**avaĭ."** _ _They then swept up alongside him and frog-marched him down a series of rusty dark stairwells, deep into the bowels of the prison._

 _They entered an area that was clearly abandoned. It was a hallway with small cells, most of the doors left ajar. The feeble illumination behind them revealed only the beginning; the rest of it was pitch black. The smaller guard tried the switch on the wall, without results. Both men hit the switches on their rifles; tac lights and red lasers stabbed through the misty darkness. A hand gripped Price's shoulder,_ _urging him forward._ _Price took a few slow steps, sidestepping some rubbish._ _He paused as a pair of glowing eyes flashed ahead of them, and was gone with a soft patter – more rats._

 _Big Man grabbed the back of his jacket and shoved him forward down the hallway._ _**"P**_ _ **o'shyol,"** _ _he growled._

 _It was about ten minutes of slow going, red dots dancing across the walls in front of them. Shadows shifted, grew and receded as shapes appeared and dissolved in the beams of the tac lights. The stony catacombs amplified every sound: the grind of their footsteps, the harsh breathing of the group, a faraway drip of water. Faint ambient light finally reappeared ahead,_ _bringing a palpable sense of relief._ _They began to pick up their pace again when an explosive thud_ _reverberated down the corridor, along with echoed yells and gunshots. Grach roughly shoved Price back up against the wall. "Quiet," he hissed, and Price felt the press of cold steel at his temple. Tac lights and lasers were switched off, plunging them back into almost complete darkness. The Russians whispered urgently amongst themselves, and the shadows of the two guards crept slowly, AK-47s held at the ready, down the corridor ahead of them. They each took up a defensive position and swept in different directions, finally disappearing through a doorway. Grach whispered Russian into his headset. He gripped Price by the back of the neck. "Move."_

_He was steered to the doorway where the two guards were waiting. One man covered their retreat as they turned right, away from the source of the noise, while the other scouted ahead down the passage, Grach keeping Price at gunpoint. They wound their way through a room full of conduits, danger signs and humming electrical equipment. Big Man tucked his gun into his shoulder as the smaller man slowly opened the door in front of them, and they entered what appeared to be a service tunnel. They were nearly to the end when they heard thuds, shouts and the rattle of gunfire nearby. Grach grabbed Price by the collar and pushed him into a recessed doorway. He pointed his MP-443 pistol at Price's face. "Back up. Up – against that pipe. Now!"_

_Price did as he was told and was handcuffed to the pipe. After a brief discussion, the Russians went charging down the corridor and disappeared, leaving him alone - trapped. Gunshots echoed nearby, followed by oppressive silence._

_He squirmed and shifted against the growing ache in his shoulders from the position he was stuck in. What the hell was going on in this place? He gave an experimental yank of the handcuffs._ _**Clink.** _ _He gave another harder tug, and was rewarded with more pain in his shoulders, wrists and hands. Not that he'd really expected anything different. This wasn't some Hollywood movie. He wasn't about to slip out of the cuffs, break the chain or magically dislodge the pipe from the wall. He wasn't going anywhere._

_Then he had an even more sobering thought: what if they didn't come back?_

_**BOOM.** _ _The walls shook. Even if he were a free man right now, he was lost in a huge maze that was being pounded with airstrikes and crawling with unknown enemy combatants. Common sense was to follow the sewers out. But the bombing would mean cave-ins, which meant detours...with no idea of whom would be waiting around the bend to meet him._ _**The devil you know** _ _, he thought grimly. Earlier, he would have rejoiced in the deaths of these men. Now they might be his best ticket out of here._

_Approaching footsteps cut through his reverie. Grach and the guards were sweating and out of breath, dark expressions on their faces. Grach and the smaller man appeared to be engaged in some sort of debate, which was growing angry. It was cut off when Grach held up a hand. Voice low, he spoke urgently into his headset. Meanwhile, Big Man was investigating the far end of the tunnel, as if that were where he'd rather be heading._

_**BOOM!** _ _With a tremendous crash, the ceiling began to rain bricks and dust upon them. Grach and the guards ran for their lives, and Price could only tuck his face into his shoulder and cower against the doorway as the lights were blotted out._

 _The rumbling stopped, replaced by coughing. The lights slowly came back into view as the dust began to subside. "Danil?" Grach called. He heard a groan in response. "Stas?" No response. "Stas?" The settling dust revealed the sight of Grach huddled into another recessed doorway, and rubble appearing to move itself as someone was digging himself out. Grach pulled some debris out of the way, and the smaller man stood up, wiping his face and spitting. As soon as they'd dusted themselves off, their expressions revealed the fate of Big Man – Stas. Their rapid-fire conversation began anew, and now involved frequent hostile glances in his direction. Two words burst through all the babble:_ _**"A** _ _**merikanskiĭ** _ _**"** _ _and_ _**"Britantsy"** _ _._

 _Price's mind reeled._ _**WHAT?** _

_Danil's face was getter redder by the minute, and their voices louder. A vein bulged on Grach's forehead as he shouted._ _**"Yeb tvoyu matʹ - hvatit tebe pizdetʹ blya!"** _

_Shaking with fury, and now at a loss for words, Danil took off running. Grach's eyes darted between Price and the retreating man's back. "Caught that, did you? Ha - don't get too excited, they nearly just killed you along with us." He rolled his eyes. "Oh, the irony."_

_As if on cue, another muffled thud showered them with dust and small rubble. "They still might." Grach shrank back into the opposite doorway, fear on his face, as Price did the same. Silence fell again with the dust, except for their heavy breathing. Two sets of eyes scanned the broken ceiling, looking for more cracks._ _**Shit. In a few minutes, this place could be our tomb.** _ _Grach's tense, pacing body language told Price that he couldn't agree more._ _**So why are we still standing here?** _

_Then it dawned on him._ _**They don't have the keys to the cuffs.** _ _They were most likely buried in the collapse along with their keeper. So here he was, chained up in a deathtrap, now about to be killed by friendly fire. It was so utterly absurd that he could have laughed out loud. And fucking hell, his shoulders hurt. Grach was whispering into his headset, as if raising his voice would start an avalanche._

_Finally Danil returned, huffing, with a set of bolt cutters. He cut the chain on the handcuffs, and Price's relief was cut short by the two guns stuck in his face. He put his newly-freed hands in the air, the cuffs still encircling his wrists. Grach grabbed his jacket and pulled him back into the center of the tunnel, while Danil went to work on trying to get the door open. It was then that he saw the twisted body of Stas, half-buried under a pile of rock. The pool of blood beside him was coated with fine dust, like newly-fallen snow. Grach pushed Price aside to pursue Stas's rifle, also partially buried. Lifting away some of the debris, he grabbed the weapon's sling and began to pull, without success. "Fuck!" he snarled. He holstered his pistol, braced his feet and began to pull with all of his strength._

_Price looked at his hands in disbelief. They both had their backs to him now. There was a chunk of stone beside him that was the size of a human head. He looked at it, and at the back of Grach's head. If allied forces were indeed the aggressors, maybe he had a chance in Hell of getting out alive after all..._

_As soon as his knees bent, Grach whipped around, pistol drawn. He smirked. "I don't think so, old man." Eyes back on the ground, Price raised his hands, as the door creaked open. The Russians began to converse again. The tone had changed somehow, but not for the better. Grach had grown quieter. For the first time, he appeared uncertain. The look Danil gave Price was...predatory. It sounded like he'd gotten the upper hand. Point made, Danil then began to climb down the steel ladder within. Grach prodded him with the gun. "Let's go, we're getting out of here."_

_They at last came to a large r_ _oom at what was almost a dead end. Caged lamps were lit high above, stabbing sad yellow beams into the dusty gloom. One side of the room contained several racks of computer equipment. A nearby sign warned of high voltage. The other side of the room contained two cages large enough for a man, one with a stained mattress inside._

 _Danil s_ _trode over and, grabbing a folding metal chair, dragged it noisily to the center of the chamber._ _**"Sadit'sya,"** _ _he ordered. Price went to the chair and began to sit, but not fast enough for the_ _man_ _, who lashed out with a well-aimed kick just above his heel._ _The pain was exquisite. Price groaned,_ _collapsing into the chair. Danil then brushed past Grach, unslinging his rifle as he disappeared back down the way they had just came._

" _Hands," Grach ordered, waving the_ _MP-443_ _at him. Price held them up, and looked up. The high ceiling was crisscrossed with steel beams. Heavy chains hung down to suspend hooks of various sizes and types, including a couple of meathooks. Grach sat on the edge of a desk just outside the doorway, head tilted, monitoring the radio transmissions._

_Cold dread washed over Price as his eyes continued to sweep the room. Next to the cages was a steel table – the type typically found in a restaurant kitchen...or a morgue. A hose was coiled on a hook on the wall. The metallic smell of blood assaulted his nose. There was a large pool of it around the drain in the corner._

_It w_ _as half communications center, half killing ground. His heart was thundering in his chest. If they were taking him out of the gulag, then why bring him here? Unless..._

 _Grach's bre_ _athing grew heavy again as he sat near the doorway, listening to his headset, giving an occasional low response. Muscles rippled in his clenched jaw, his voice almost a whisper._ _**"Da."** _ _His shoulders slumped for a moment, then he rose stiffly to approach Price._ _When their eyes met, Price knew that the game had changed. He recognized that look. It was the same one he'd worn when they'd entered his cell. The look of a defeated man facing his own end, yet still burning with deadly purpose. This room had been chosen for a reason, as he'd feared. His body sang with a fresh jolt of adrenalin._

 _Grach gave a heavy sigh of disgust_ _._ _"So the cavalry came after all." His smile was bitter. "How sweet. They've spent millions of dollars to come and get you. Hell," he gave a hollow laugh. "They spent a few million just blowing up our communications tower. And just think, it will all be for nothing – " He leveled the pistol at Price's head. " – for about 25 cents."_

_Gunfire cracked nearby. The man's eyes flicked back toward the sound._

_As he lunged upward from the chair, Price's left hand shot up and sideways, snaking around Grach's arm and pulling the surprised man into a struggling embrace. The gun went off right next to Price's head, muffling all sound except for a high-pitched ringing. With the man's gun arm trapped under his armpit, he charged into him, knocking him off balance._

_The gun fired again and again, muzzle flashes sending flickers of eerie lightning through the cavernous chamber, rounds pinging off the ceiling and walls in puffs of dust. Acrid smoke swirled around the two struggling men as they stumbled together in a desperate waltz. Adrenalin was roaring through Price's body. It drowned out all that didn't matter, numbing the pain of the sharp jab to the back of his arm, bringing all focus to his opponent. He tightened his hold around Grach's_ _arm_ _, hyperextending his elbow. The Russian grunted and the gun bounced somewhere on the floor behind them._

 _Price pressed his forearm into Grach's throat, forcing him backward until his back slammed against the wall. Price kept going, plowing his head as hard as he could into the man's face. H_ _e felt the crunch of bone and cartilage giving way._ _Still temporarily deafened from the gunshots, Price could barely hear the mewling cry bubbling out of Grach as blood began to pour from his nose._

_Agony exploded in Price's guts as Grach's knee rammed up into his groin. His fingernails raked across Price's eyes, then he followed up with a clumsy punch and shoved him away. Doubled over, red welling up in the stinging scratches on his face, Price stumbled backward and collapsed. Stunned, Grach staggered away in the opposite direction, landing on his hands and knees, blood streaming from his face into a small puddle on the stones._

_Price was curled, clutching himself, into a fetal position on the floor. When he had recovered enough to open his eyes, he spied the pistol lying about a meter away. He clambered toward it like a crushed insect. Rolling onto his back, he gripped it with both hands and took aim at the enraged Russian now charging towards him. Grach was almost on top of him now._

_He pulled the trigger. Pulled again – nothing. It was jammed._

_Grach reared back with a snarl, picking his foot up to stomp Price's face._

_Catching him by the upraised foot, gun still clutched in one hand, Price shoved upward while scissoring both his legs_ _around Grach's, trapping it. The man fell heavily sideways, crashing to the floor beside him._

 _Price swung the gun around in a wide arc. "...Fuck..." he ground out, smashing the pistol's butt down into the Russian's ruined face. Grach howled, clawing at him. Price brought_ _the gun_ _back_ _up_ _for another swing. " ...you_ _**uhmmmf** _ _." A hand caught his arm, and another clamped over Price's face, digging at his eyes. In an explosive tangle of limbs, Price blocked the attempt and kicked himself free, scrambling backward to protect himself._ _**Come on,** _ _the thoughts roared in his head._ _**Come on...just shoot the bastard!** _ _Grach rolled over and lurched toward him with surprising speed. A hand wrapped itself over both of Price's, blocking his frantic efforts to work the jammed gun's slide. His head snapped back as Grach hooked his fist – twice, into his face. His head swam, lights bursting before his eyes. Grach wrenched_ _his_ _thumb backward and Price cried out, the pistol falling from his grasp. Triumphant, Grach seized it and stood up, slapping the weapon's butt against his palm and racking the slide to clear the malfunction._

 _As the stuck shell jingled to the floor, Price launched himself drunkenly upward. Grach's finger went for the trigger as he brought the pistol to bear, cut lips pulled back_ _in a slick red grimace, curling into a sneer_ _._ _**"Suka,"** _ _he gurgled, spitting blood._ _Still staggering from the abuse, Price made a clumsy grab for the gun, twisting the barrel sharply sideways. Grach's scream echoed against the high ceiling. He yanked his injured hand backwards, causing Price to lose his grip. The gun twirled from his broken finger and clattered to the floor._

_The scream of pain morphed into rage. Price was stunned at the force of the backhanded blow to the side of his neck. It knocked him backward in a flash of light, and now he was being herded toward the wall, fighting desperately to prevent Grach's hand from encircling his throat – and losing. Scratching. Pushing. Grunting. Locked together, quivering with effort as each man struggled to overpower the other. As they grappled, he felt the racing heartbeat of his enemy, and a thundering vibration in Grach's chest along with his own. Price's throat was raw._

_They were both screaming._

_His back slammed against the wall, followed immediately by his head. More fireworks. He was silenced by the iron grip tightening around his windpipe. He choked and gasped, his vision darkening at the edges. He grabbed Grach's injured hand, grinding the broken bones together. When Grach pulled his hand away, it gave Price the opportunity he needed. He hammered the inside of Grach's elbow, folding his outstretched arm – breaking the chokehold. He powered his knee into Grach's abdomen, hearing the air rush out of him as he sagged forward, and drove his fist straight into his face. The Russian retched and staggered. Price continued to advance, pummeling Grach's face and head. He was spattered with their mingled sweat and blood. He could taste it, and the smell was overpowering. Grach was weaving with his blows, dribbling blood and saliva, clumsily swatting at him. Price could feel his own strength ebbing. One way or the other, this had to end soon._

_Suddenly, Grach managed to catch Price's fist and delivered another brutal strike to Price's battered head, driving him to the floor._

_He heard crackling and popping in his ears. He was dazzled by a shower of stars, and couldn't tell up from down. He was trembling, shaking like a leaf; the adrenalin was draining away. He tensed._ _This was it, he was now well and truly fucked._ _He brought his hands and knees up, curling into a ball. It was futile, but it was all he could do to prepare himself for a savage kick. It would be the beginning of the end. When it didn't come, he shook his head, clearing his vision a little. A short distance away, Grach was swaying back and forth, punch-drunk. The Russian's body stiffened, squinting bloodshot eyes in an effort to focus: the gun was lying on the floor in front of him._

_It was get up now, or never get up again._

_It took everything he had. Price rammed into him, his full weight behind his shoulder. Grach's foot slipped on the fallen weapon – hurling him backwards, sending Price sprawling_ _and the gun_ _spinning across the room. Grach's reverse tumble came to an abrupt end when he smashed the back of his head against the corner of one of the cages. The man's eyes rolled upward as his body began to go limp._

 _Price was on him in an instant. Teeth bared like an_ _animal_ _, he gripped Grach's jaw and began to bash the man's head, over and over, against the solid steel edge._

_Grach pawed at him ineffectually for a moment, then his arms fell to his sides like a marionette whose strings had been cut._

_Pri_ _ce's hearing was returning; the dull roar he heard was sharpening into the sound of his own_ _fury_ _. The chamber reverberated with his yelling and the sickening thuds of Grach's shattered skull striking the cage. The sound coming from Grach was a wet, gurgling snort._

 _The_ _back of the man's head was a soft, bloody, misshapen pulp. Tiny hot droplets speckled his face. Price released his grip and the body crumpled into a twitching heap._

_He now heard something else...muffled shouts in the nearby corridor. Danil. The pistol was nowhere in sight. His eyes darted madly around the room for something – anything._

_Danil entered, the AK at his shoulder. The fool was wearing a respirator, which, as he discovered the body, prevented him from seeing Price crouched in the shadows. A length of heavy chain came whistling through the air to slam into the back of his head._ _Stunned_ _, he staggered, dropping his rifle. Price moved in for the kill. As he swung a loop of chain over the man's head to encircle his neck, the wall in front of them exploded._

_The Russian took the full brunt of the blast, a punishing onslaught of sharp flying stone blocks and dust. Pulling it taut, Price leaned back on the chain to strangle him. The injured man tottered blindly forward, clutching at the chain around his neck, dragging Price with him, as armed men in black poured in through the hole like angry hornets._

_Using the momentum, Price shoved the guard's body into the nearest one and landed a solid punch to his jaw, knocking him to the ground. Eyes wide, chest heaving, he snatched up the Russian's fallen AK-47 and thrust it into the man's face._

_Someone was behind him. Price felt the pistol at his head,_ _heard the click_ _. He felt weak in the knees when he heard the familiar Scottish burr in his ear: "Drop it."_

" _Soap?"_

* * *

Rage, sorrow, cold satisfaction...the emotions had swept across MacTavish's face in a turbulent storm as he listened. Yet all the while, Price saw him slowly blinking with drowsiness, trying to shake it off. By the end, he was fighting sleep like a child. Price pushed himself up from his chair.

"I'm off now, Soap. You need your rest."

"Mmm," MacTavish sighed, closing his eyes, surrendering at last.

There was so much to tell him, but at this point, it would simply have to wait. It was just as well, he was in no condition to hear it. He turned to leave, his movements cautious, taking slow steps. He was stiff and achy from sitting.

He paused to look back at Soap, who looked small and broken as he lay there in the rumpled bedclothes. How they were getting out of this one, he didn't know. Tentatively, he approached the bed and pulled the blanket up, smoothing it over him. He began to step away again.

"Price?"

Soap's eyes were at half-mast in his bruised face.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"Thank _you,_ mate," Price replied softly as he made a quiet exit.


	10. Pinned Down

The hike to the mountaintop observation post had taken more out of him than expected. _If you're feeling up to it_ , Kamarov had said. Price hated to admit that in fact, he wasn't. He'd refused the Russians' offers to stop for a breather; he felt as if he wouldn't able to get started again if he did. Finally, he found that he had no choice. He leaned against a gnarled tree trunk, his breath hitching painfully. Rivulets of sweat crawled down his scalp and around his ears.

"Are you all right?" Nikolai asked. Price nodded.

Sergei and Bogdan exchanged looks. "Not far now," Sergei said, as they turned to continue climbing the steep trail.

The tree was the only thing standing between him and the edge of a cliff. His gaze plunged downward, catching glimpses of what looked like doorways built into the surrounding mountains. Trees were sparse in this dry rocky terrain, which was studded with scrubby vegetation.

Nikolai waited alongside him for a few minutes until, with a sigh, Price slid a thumb under the green web sling of the AK-47 and hiked it up on his shoulder. Nikolai, Sergei and Bogdan were similarly equipped with AKs and Russian sidearms. Price had used his own gear to secure his pistol and spare magazines. He thought bitterly of the Serdyukov that now occupied his holster, mourning the loss of his 1911 in the river. His constant companion through many dangers, it had become something of a good luck charm. Maybe his luck was running out.

Price and Nikolai picked their way past some large boulders until at last they met the two other Russians at the summit. A natural wall of uneven gray rock receded to reveal the source of the doorways. Well-camouflaged by their surroundings, there were quite a few stone and timber houses nestled into the steep brown hillsides, which swept down into surprisingly green valley. There was the odd wisp of smoke from cookfires. Goats and chickens milled about in terraced pens. The pastoral scene looked frozen in time, until Price saw a column of dust rising from a faraway vehicle. Behind the mountains in front of them, dark shadows rose far in the distance, wispy crowns of gray cloud blurring patches of stark white – Afghanistan's oldest and best means of breaking the will of the would-be conqueror.

The rock wall continued mostly at waist height or above, not unlike a balcony railing. Loose rocks were piled around the lowest section near the center. It then rose upward again on the opposite side, blending back into the mountain. Buzz and another man were up there, standing at the far end, peering down into the valley. As with Price, sweat stained the light cotton t-shirts beneath their body armor. Both had Glocks on their hips, and M4s dangled behind them. The man standing next to him was wearing a backwards baseball cap with a laughing skull on it. He had one foot propped up on a rock, looking through a pair of binoculars, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

"Hey, Price," said Buzz in his slow southern drawl, brightening at their approach. He nodded at the Russians. "Gentlemen." The other man was of medium height and build. His weathered face was framed by a full beard. Hazel eyes peeked out from under a mop of shaggy dirty blond hair shot with gray. A few faded green tattoos decorated tanned arms corded with wiry muscle. He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and stepped down from the wall. Buzz tilted his head in the man's direction. "This is my partner, we all just call him the Rev."

"You're a vicar?" asked Price as he shook the man's hand.

Rev grinned sheepishly around his Marlboro. "More like a dime-store philosopher," Buzz replied.

Price wiped his brow, took a swig of water and squinted down at the green tableau. It was farmland, with a fairly large number of figures making their way through the fields. A Loyalist sniper team had a Dragunov and spotting scope set up along the rock wall.

"Here," said Buzz, offering him the binoculars.

Price took a good look. Acres of pink and white poppies carpeted the valley far below, as far as the eye could see. A few Afghan men with AKs looked on as dozens of others sorted through the bulbous green pods, scoring them with small blades to bleed them of their milky sap, which would later be collected after drying into a reddish-pink resin.

Price could hear Buzz chuckling at his sour expression. Though Kamarov's reluctance to discuss some aspects of their mission had been understandable, this went beyond mere security. Obviously, cooperation with the CIA wasn't the only thing leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "So this is the cost of doing business."

"You got it." Buzz shrugged.

Price glanced over his shoulder. The Russians were chatting and passing out cigarettes. "Quite the cozy arrangement. How does that work – the Russians come with their _ushankas_ in hand, the Afghans offer them a bouquet and everybody's friends again?"

Buzz grinned. "Sort of. First, you gotta ask, and do it nicely." His eyes widened in earnesty, though with his big blue eyes and sunburned round cheeks the effect was almost comical. "I'm serious."

" _Pashtunwali,_ the code of honor, demands that the entire tribe must provide sanctuary to those who ask. Once given, they'll defend that person – or persons – to the death," said Rev. His American accent was much less distinctive, possibly midwestern.

Buzz continued. "Next, help protect the tribe and their fields from their enemies. In return, they help us make sure that opium isn't the only thing taking the Silk Road back to Mother Russia."

Price took another long look, letting out a soft groan of disgust. He needed a minute to let this all sink in.

"Such righteous indignation...from a former Blade?" A knowing chuckle. "Try not to hurt yourself polishing that halo, buddy."

_Touché._ He wasn't going to go there, not now; some things were best left locked away. He conceded with a huff, a tilt of the head and a wry smile, letting Buzz chalk this one up in the 'win' column while he sought a way to steer the conversation elsewhere.

After sensory deprivation in the gulag had brought Price to the brink of madness, the flood of information following his rescue had nearly pushed him over the edge. Following months of isolation, the news was worse than he could have dreamed. Russia had attacked America, and the World was poised on the brink of global war. At the time, he'd let information of other current events simply wash over him, lest he drown. Now he suddenly recalled such a piece of news: the recent collapse of the Afghan central government and the escalating violence that followed. History was repeating itself, as it tended to do in Afghanistan. Not that who was in charge ever meant much in this part of the country.

_Meet the new boss...same as the old boss._

"So yet another puppet show in Kabul gets an unhappy ending." It came out as half statement, half question.

"Price, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to hurt my feelings." Soft laughter rippled through the group.

Buzz sighed, mocking amusement dissolving into world-weary resignation. "Yeah...as usual, the bodies weren't even cold before the power grab started. So to add fuel to the fire, along comes the latest bunch of gun-toting chuckleheads in Toyota Hiluxes. They call themselves the New Dawn of Afghanistan. They're pretty new all right, many are foreigners. They rolled on in to the outlying areas, vowing to restore order. That sort of thing always sounds good when you're living with lawlessness and banditry on a daily basis..."

"...but be careful what you wish for," Price murmured.

"Oh yeah. Once they take control of an area, they begin to impose their own ultra-restrictive laws, all in the name of 'decency' and 'virtue'."

"Let me guess – public executions?"

Buzz nodded. "Beatings, amputations, beheadings. No one above the level of footsoldier actually believes the rhetoric, of course. They're after control of the poppy fields – and the smuggling routes." He stooped to retrieve a water bottle nestled between some rocks. "So we stepped in to help the tribe keep them out, and let Kamarov's men take the credit. Now the Loyalists have safe harbor and safe passage, and the village has some additional protection against NDA thugs."

"And you have your proxy to destabilize the Voreshevsky government, which you probably had long before Russia attacked America."

Buzz clucked his tongue. "Now that would be telling."

"As for the opium, it would be nice to put a stop to it, but that's not what we're here for – not this week, anyway," said Rev. The corner of his mouth twitched. " _Heh_ , the government made them plow the poppies under last year. They made a big show of it. But guess what? That was the same as planting more, and now they have a bumper crop." He shook his head sadly. "As long as their economy is in ruins and this is what's in demand, don't expect them to start growing corn instead."

Price was amazed that after all these years, gunshots and explosions, he still had the ability to hear Bogdan muttering under his breath behind him: "Sometimes, demand is manufactured..."

The two Americans had already resumed watching the fields, either ignoring his remark or completely oblivious. "We sent them running for the hills, though they still insist on taking the occasional potshot at us," said Buzz, unscrewing the cap. "However, we're getting reports that they're building a strong presence in the nearby town. If they control that, they control the main road out of here. Now that," he swallowed a mouthful of water. "- we cannot abide. If we can soften them up, we're betting that tribal grudges and damaged honor will take care of the rest."

"Come, we have more to show you," Nikolai said, diverting his eyes from Price's to give a meaningful glance to the former FSB men. He clapped a hand on Bogdan's shoulder. " _Davaĭ_."

They had already begun making their way down the slope when Rev, eyes still fixed on the valley below, spoke again. "Around here, damaged honor demands payment in blood." He took a quick puff on his cigarette. "These people have long memories."

Sergei shot him a hard look over his shoulder. They kept walking, not realizing Rev had only paused until they again heard his voice growing faint behind them. "They have a saying: _Speak good words to an enemy very softly; then destroy him, root and branch._ "

* * *

In contrast to the chilly evenings, they were now withering in the afternoon heat. The tour of the winding paths that crowned the mountaintop was all well and good. However, with precious little shade and the air shimmering over rock and gravel, Price found himself looking forward to the tight passageways and damp musty air of the bunker. Thankfully, the Russians had decided to cut it short. Though he hadn't complained, he knew his discomfort had shown in his stiff gait, and was written all over his face. The group's atmosphere had been subdued, and most of the sparse conversation hadn't been in English. As they approached the bunker's camouflaged hilltop entrance, something briefly cut the bright sunlight that beat down on them. Price saw a shadow drifting along the ground.

On instinct, he stepped back underneath the camo netting. His bloodshot gray eyes peered up through the dappled light, catching a brief metallic glint high above. They narrowed, then melted back into the shadows.

* * *

"A drone...they're looking for us. I'm surprised it's taken them this long."

Soap was propped up on pillows, looking better than he had in days. A sheet covered him to the waist, the heavy blanket folded at the foot of the bed. The lumpy outline of his bandaged midsection showed through the thin cotton fabric of his light blue pajama top. His jaw was shadowed in rough stubble, patches of his mohawk still matted with bits of dried blood. The mottled green and purple bruises tattooing his scabbed face only served to intensify his stern expression. "I'm also surprised it's taken you this long to tell me."

"If I'd had, would you remember? You spent your first two days here in intensive care. Do you even remember that? Do you remember some of the things you said?" Price asked.

MacTavish blanched.

"Do you remember what I told you yesterday?" Gentle amusement warmed Nikolai's question.

Momentarily cowed into silence, Soap switched his gaze between the faces of the two men at his bedside. "I guess I have been pretty out of it," he admitted. His face darkened again, the apparent willingness to listen to reason gone as quickly as it came. "But I'm not now. Just so I have this straight: the Loyalists, with help from the CIA, are hatching a plot to retake Russia while guarding poppy fields for some Afghan warlord..." Wincing and grunting, he pushed himself up on his arms and began to slowly scoot his way to the edge of the bed.

"Just another day at the office. Don't forget the part where we're posing as mercenaries." Price realized that maybe he shouldn't have said that.

"...and things are about to get busy with – _ugh -_ a hostile militia, a US special ops team is on their way..." Pain etched his features as he slowly freed his legs from the confines of the sheets and swung them over the side of the bed, gingerly settling his bare feet on the concrete floor. With his eyes shut tight he turned his face away from them, taking deep breaths, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress.

Price noticed Nikolai edging closer to the bedside. The commotion had also attracted the attention of Sasha, the short, dark and broad Russian medic whom Kamarov had assigned to watch over Soap.

"Soap, I don't think – "

MacTavish opened his eyes and turned back toward them, wearing a look that Price knew all too well. " – all while we sit and wait for the other shoe to drop? Where are my clothes?"

What happened next made Price appreciate the Russians' foresight for the second time in as many days. Soap stood up suddenly and took a step.

"Ohh...shite," he breathed, his grim determination draining away along with his color. Nikolai was already in motion as Soap's knees buckled and he slumped forward, face slack, eyes half-closed. The IV line snapped to its elastic limit and pulled the pole over with a crash. By the time Price had launched himself out of his chair, Sasha and Nikolai were struggling with Soap's limp body between them.

MacTavish was white-faced and sweaty. A small moan escaped his gritted teeth; Price could could well imagine what he was holding back. The Russians draped his arms over their shoulders and began guiding him back to the bed, ignoring his weak protests. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I just got dizzy, that's all," he gasped.

" _Zatknis,"_ said Sasha, obviously annoyed at both the mess and the fact that he and Nikolai were currently bearing most of MacTavish's weight.

"Well that was impressive," said Price. He set the fallen pole upright while the two Russians got Soap back into bed, lying flat. MacTavish was grimacing, an arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen. Blood oozed around the white IV catheter hanging halfway out of his hand, the loose ends of the tape barely stuck to the skin. Price shook his head with a half-smile. "What are you going to do, Soap – bleed on them?"

Misha hovered over them, scowling. "You didn't want to get up this morning – now you're trying to run off on me." While Sasha wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Soap's bicep, Misha pulled the IV out the rest of the way and pressed a gauze square to the back of MacTavish's bleeding hand. "You're determined to ruin our hard work, aren't you? Or do you just like getting stuck?" Soap groaned, clamping his eyes shut in pain and irritation.

"Looks like you just got up too quickly, eh?" Price sat at the bedside, positioning himself in the hopes of distracting Soap from the medics' activities. The Russians talked amongst themselves, looking altogether displeased. Now finished taking Soap's vitals, Sasha was priming a new IV set. He squeezed the drip chamber and watched the clear liquid shoot down the tubing, clamping off the flow once it began to drip out the end. Misha had applied a tourniquet and was prodding the flesh of Soap's forearm with a questing fingertip. MacTavish gave a heavy sigh, passing his now-bandaged hand over his eyes, careful to avoid touching his broken nose.

"I recall hearing something about pride and falls." Price grinned. "Just can't stop yourself from being a stubborn prat, can you?" He caught a sharp whiff of antiseptic.

Soap lifted his hand from his face to look at him in mild outrage, sutured eyebrow raised. "Says the man who keeps giving death a good kick in the bollocks." He grunted at the jab of the needle and sighed again, sinking back further into the pillow. Most of his color was back. "We really stepped in it, didn't we?"

Price was grim. "We did. But as far as our friends from Langley are concerned, we're just a couple of soldiers for hire who don't like questions any more than they do. In a few days, Kamarov's men will take us to the safe house."

"Price." Soap's weary eyes locked onto his. "Don't wait."

"Come again?"

Soap frowned at Misha, who was thumbing the plunger on a syringe that he'd slipped into the newly reestablished IV line. The needle's cap was clamped in his teeth, bobbing as he spoke. "No arguments this time, my friend."

Soap rolled his eyes, his jaw muscles rippling in frustration, and returned his attention to Price. "Let's talk to Kamarov. You and Nikolai should make for the safe house immediately, I'll catch up."

Price felt his face burning. "You pulled me from that hellhole, I'm not leaving you behind to be measured for an orange boiler suit." He glanced at Nikolai. "We stay here."

" _Da,_ " said the Russian pilot with a resolute nod.

"For now, my job is to play along, yours is to get better," said Price. The medics had gathered supplies for a dressing change and were snapping on gloves, so he and Nikolai both stood to leave. Despite the seriousness of their situation, Price had to hold back a laugh at the look on MacTavish's face. He was clearly less than thrilled with the prospect of what was about to transpire.

As he and Nikolai stepped out of the room, Price offered the best parting words that he could. "At the moment, even if they do know, we're not their top priority."

* * *

Enough time had passed for Nikolai to leave in search of food. Sasha soon followed him, giving his hands a quick wash and passing Price with only a cursory glance. Price sat on a crate in the hallway, shifting uncomfortably and picking at loose threads on his trousers. Finally, Misha emerged from the room, turning off the light behind him. The curtain was still partially drawn around the bed, casting shadows over the still form beneath the covers.

"The medication has taken effect, he'll be quiet for the rest of the night. The wound and incision both look good, no sign of infection there. His fever is gone and his lungs are clearing up, he just needs time."

Price had barely looked at him. He was staring at the floor. "We're running out it." He hung his head with a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. "I can't see him taking a long journey anytime soon."

Misha shrugged, giving him a small smile. "Tomorrow is another day. In my time as a doctor, I've learned that people can still surprise you. But he's not the only one that's still healing. You should turn in early. I can give you a sleeping pill if you'd like."

"No thanks." Price rose and turned to leave.

Misha's voice was soft behind him. "How long has it been, Price?"

Price stiffened, stopping in his tracks.

"How long since you were able to sleep through the night without one?"

A slow half-turn brought the medic back into view. Price's voice was almost a whisper, edged with barely-contained anger. "That's none of your business." He strode out of the infirmary without a backward glance.

Price didn't give a damn about Misha's good intentions, and he sure as hell didn't need his fucking sympathy. It added yet another surge to the waves of conflict roiling within him. The hunt was on, and the eyes in the sky never slept. The order for their termination hadn't necessarily died along with Shepherd. Their cover story was, at best, a house of cards – one about to collapse under the scrutiny of the US Intelligence officers. Waiting was a luxury they could no longer afford, but their injuries had left them both vulnerable. Soap could barely stand, let alone walk. Price's heart had sank at Soap's suggestion to leave him behind, though it was the wisest course of action. It was also unthinkable. MacTavish had come for him when all hope was lost. Price couldn't abandon him. If they were even lucky enough to be captured, then so be it; Soap wouldn't be captured alone. That possibility loomed closer with each passing day, and his attempt to reassure MacTavish had been nothing short of pathetic.

_'...even if they do know, we're not their top priority.' Good one, John. Who are you trying to convince – Soap, or yourself?_

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

**__Davaĭ__** _ _**[**__ ** _Давай]_** _:_ Let's go

**_Ushanka [_** ** _ушанка]_** ** _:_** Russian fur cap with ear flaps; lit. 'ear hat'

**_Zatknis [_** ** _Заткнись]_** ** _:_** Shut up (rude)


	11. Texas Blue Badger

In a climate-controlled trailer, in an undisclosed location, two men sat at a computer console. Their tall-backed task chairs were ergonomically designed for long hours of comfortable sitting. Joysticks were in their hands; keyboards, mice and trackballs were within easy reach. The ambient lighting was dim, leaving their dark silhouettes awash in the ghostly glow of multiple flat screen monitors, a wall of illumination rising from desktop to ceiling. Some showed colorful maps and data readouts. However, each man was focused on the camera feed displayed on the large screen directly in front of him. Rough dark wrinkles of mountains, green carpets of farmland and shiny ribbons of water were all laid out in miniature, teeming with life too small to be seen: villagers, livestock, potential enemy combatants and two known groups of friendlies.

Centered on each image was a white crosshair, along with numbers in the corners displaying a time stamp and information relevant to that man's particular role.

The two straightened, listening to their headsets. New orders, and a new heading.

"Pilot copies."

"Sensor copies."

The onscreen horizon tilted as the aircraft banked into a turn, then evened out. The camera zoomed in on a sprawling, flat-roofed, mud-walled house. A few vehicles were parked outside.

"Roger that. We've got eyes on the target building."

The scene was swarming with tiny figures. Some formed a dotted line surrounding the perimeter. A couple more lay unmoving on a nearby hillside, while a group piled up outside the door. They poured into the house, disappearing from view.

Minutes passed. The ones outside were still. Nothing changed, then the figures inside the house eventually trickled back out again. The others began to leave their positions, moving to join them.

A black cloud burst into the corner of the screen, flashing white, and they all scattered like ants in the opposite direction.

* * *

 Throughout the valley, all visible life paused at the dull thud of the explosion. Every head turned – from the turbaned farmers tending their fields to the veiled women and their children herding goats on the hillside. Even the animals seemed to stand still. None of this escaped the notice of the armed men standing on the mountaintop.

A radio broke the silence. "Mustang two one, this is Echo six, do you copy?"

A southern drawl answered. "This is Mustang two one, go ahead."

Oily black smoke from the car bomb was just rising into view at the OP. Radio in hand, Buzz had stepped away from the main group – to maintain some sort of confidentiality, Price presumed.

Rev was in the exact same position he'd been in when Price first met him: foot propped up on the stone wall, looking through the binoculars. Further down along the wall, Sergei and Bogdan were conversing in their native tongue. Bogdan had plucked a lone poppy from between the rocks, pulling it out by the roots. He twirled the crooked stem between his fingers as they talked, frowning, and tossed the dying plant aside. Two other Loyalists were patrolling the steep downhill path that split off from the one leading up to the OP, just past the bunker entrance.

While he spoke, Buzz craned his neck to look up at the tiny speck of the UAV humming far over their heads. Since Price could still hear snatches of his conversation, he decided that his pistol needed some attention. Pulling a small rag from one of his pouches, he idly wiped away an excess smear of oil from the slide.

"Everyone okay?"

"Affirmative," the rough American voice on the other end replied. "They detonated too soon." He snorted. "Fuckin' amateurs."

"Any crows?"

"Just some dude they had playing sentry to an empty house. Seems like a nobody. We'll check it out and be back in time for dinner."

"Roger that. See you soon. Out."

_Things are about to get a lot more complicated_. Price gave the Serdyukov a once-over with the rag and checked chamber, showing little interest as a frowning Buzz clipped the radio back on his vest and rejoined the group.

Rev looked at him expectantly. "There was no meet."

Buzz curled his lip. "Just the remote-control welcome committee."

"More bad intel." Rev's expression was hard. "Time to cut that one loose."

"Crazy old bastard."

Price kept his thoughts to himself as he watched the activity below, which had resumed as if nothing had happened. The men slowly worked their way through the poppy field. On the terraced hillside, the women's colorful veils fluttered in the breeze. Bells jingled around the goats' necks. A few small children played tag, scattering a flock of chickens in their wake. Beside him, Nikolai quietly smoked a cigarette, sneaking a glance at the Americans.

Today wasn't nearly as hot. The sky was a clear blue, the fields an emerald green enveloped in brown hills. A sparkling river snaked its way through the valley floor, like a path to beckon an unwary traveler.

He felt a presence behind him. Buzz's voice cut the silence.

"Beautiful, isn't it? Almost looks like a peaceful place." Then he noticed what had caught Price's eye: a truck was approaching the men in the field, the exposed frame for the rear canopy resembling the ribs of some huge beast. "How's MacTavish doing today?"

The use of the name sent a thrill of warning through Price, who wondered if the CIA men were simply biding their time until Soap was fit enough to be taken prisoner. They certainly had them right where they wanted them. "Resting."

"Rest...seems like injuries are the only time we really get it. No rest for the weary...or the wicked," said Buzz, turning to him with a grin. He slung his M4 behind him and rested his forearms on the rock wall, taking in the view. "You forget how to slow down – until the Army or whomever does it for you. The SAS - they kick you out at 40, don't they?"

_But you know that, don't you?_ Price grunted in affirmation. The less he said, the better.

"I don't care if you do know when you sign up." He shook his head, watching the farmers sift through the foliage. "After all those years, all those missions, it's still gotta stick in your craw."

Price didn't offer a response, and Buzz didn't look for one.

"But it's all a business now, right?" said Buzz, turning toward him with a lift of his eyebrows. "And business is _booming_..." He caught himself with a chuckle, rolling his eyes in the direction of the smoke. Rev gave him a sideways look, shaking his head, an unlit cigarette between his lips as he rifled through his pockets. "...so there's still plenty out there for the likes of us."

Price took his cue with a smirk. "Like standing around all day watching posh lard arses beach themselves? Getting all tooled up for a celebrity shopping adventure? Or maybe a new career as a rent-a-thug in some banana republic?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Price saw Nikolai offer his lighter. Rev nodded in appreciation and took it, lighting up.

Buzz's shoulders shook in a spasm of silent mirth, but then his smile melted into an uncharacteristic seriousness. He returned his gaze to the valley. "Every dog has his day, Price – and we've had ours. Can't save the World forever." He sighed. "That's a younger man's game."

The grin crawled back across his face. "Anyway, sounds like you're just not making the right connections, man. You know, we might just have a place for a guy like you..."

_Drugged up and handcuffed in the back of a plane, you mean? No thanks, did that one already._

The grin was faltering. "...if you're interested," His voice trailed off at the change in Sergei's expression.

Sergei spoke Russian into his headset, frowning. With a brief word to Bogdan, he turned and headed down the trail that encircled the mountainside directly below them.

Buzz barely hid his annoyance. With a quick glance at Rev, he addressed Bogdan. "What's up?"

Bogdan tilted his head, listening. "They've found something." He fell silent again.

After a few minutes, there was still no more word. Buzz noticed Price's remote stare, and turned to follow it until sudden movement distracted him. Scowling, Bogdan had his rifle at his shoulder, sweeping the valley through his scope.

He responded in Russian over the comms. "Someone cut the wires to the claymores..."

Each man straightened up, now on full alert. Hands unconsciously moved toward weapons.

Price's eyes had never left the field, and Buzz finally caught what he was looking at. The farmers were piling into the back of the truck. Price's eyes narrowed. "They're quitting early, aren't they?"

"Yeah..." Buzz pulled his rifle into reach, while Price picked up his own from its resting place against the stone wall.

With all of the men huddled in back and hanging on tight, the truck pulled away, bumping and jerking over the dirt road.

Rev now held his own M4 at the low ready position, approaching the still-silent Bogdan. "You're right...things just got way too quiet."

Buzz glanced impatiently at the tall Russian. "Well?"

"They're on their way back now."

"It would have been nice to let us know."

Bogdan didn't reply, squinting into his scope. The valley was now just as silent. The other people that had been out tending their animals had left.

Not a soul was in sight.

A hissing shriek sent Price's heart into his throat; he dropped into crouch against the stone wall. The others were tensed in readiness but remained mostly unmoved. Buzz laughed, while the others let out a collective sigh.

"First time hearing an 'RPG bird', huh? They do sound pretty convincing. No idea what they're actually called."

"'Change of underwear' birds?" Rev's suggestion received a few uneasy chuckles.

Price's shoulders still rose and fell with the adrenalin tide, which had yet to recede. Buzz grinned broadly. "Relax, man." His head tilted with a quirk of his bushy eyebrows. "Stress'll kill ya, you know."

Price gave him a withering look and turned to Nikolai, who shrugged and tamped his cigarette butt into a rock.

Price propped his rifle back against the wall beside him. He braced himself, preparing to stand up and trying not to think about how much it was going to hurt.

_SNAP._ Buzz staggered backward with a gasp.

Price whirled to face him; Buzz was clutching his chest, crying out, face crumpled in pain as he sank to his knees. With another sharp crack and a grunt next to him, a falling body slumped into Price, the sudden weight pressing him back downward. Everyone was in motion, diving for cover. The sound of the gunshots finally reached them, echoes rolling over the mountainsides.

Struggling to stay upright, Price lowered the man gently to the ground. His head lolled sideways, bright red blood gushing from his temple, his limp hand flopping into the dirt.

"Nikolai!"

The Russian's face was pale, his eyes closed. Price found a strong steady pulse, timing the rhythmic surges of blood streaming from the small hole above his right ear. Price lightly slapped his face. "Nikolai – can you hear me?" No response.

He received a stark reminder that they were now exposed: another crack in the sound barrier as a shot whistled past his face. A cloud of dirt burst next to Nikolai's head. Rev threw himself forward, grabbing the unconscious Russian's vest and dragging him behind cover, as Price scrambled backward out of the kill zone.

Bogdan calmly stood over them, squeezing off loud automatic bursts, empty bullet casings jingling on the rocks. Though the low area of the rock wall spanned only a couple of meters, the sniper fire had now turned it into a vast divide, separating Price and Buzz from the others. Grim fortune was theirs; the shooters had let their excitement get the better of them, otherwise they would have finished the job.

Rev's hand dug into his vest pocket, producing a dull green package. He looked over at Buzz. "You good?"

Buzz gave a curt nod in reply. Dropping his cracked radio to the ground, he cursed and jerked his hand away from the still-hot 7.62 round embedded in his vest.

Rev turned his attention back to Nikolai. He tore open the field dressing and began applying pressure to the wound. The side of Nikolai's face and neck were a slick red, his shirt collar and the right shoulder of his vest now soaked. "Nick? Nick! Come on – talk to me, buddy."

Sergei came storming up the path, something dark clutched in his hand. " _Tvoyu mat,_ " he swore. "They used blankets to hide their heat signatures – built a weapons cache right under our noses!" Catching sight of Nikolai lying motionless on the ground, he threw down the heavy woolen blanket he'd been holding and took a knee beside Rev. Sergei called Nikolai's name, addressing him in Russian, his scowl deepening as he got a better look at the wound.

"Looks like he caught a ricochet. A direct hit would have been game over," said Rev, prying open each eyelid. He was rewarded with a groan. His face cracked into a smile. "That's it."

Nikolai's brow furrowed. He stirred and began to mumble in groggy Russian. Sergei chuckled and replied, clapping him on the shoulder. Whatever he'd said, it even got a grin out of Bogdan. Rev glanced at Price in reassurance, and gave a short laugh of relief. "We thought you were a goner."

" _Chto_?" Nikolai reached up to touch the dressing, only to have Rev catch his hand. The pilot's face creased in pain. "... _oĭ_."

"Easy," said Rev. His smile had dissolved into concern once again as he studied the now-saturated dressing beneath his hand. Blood continued to ooze from underneath, dripping from dark wet spikes in Nikolai's hair. "You're leaking pretty good."

Rev tied the dressing tightly in place around the pilot's head. Nikolai winced, a hand still hovering near the injury. Rev addressed Sergei, his expression grave. "We need to get him inside. Help me get him up."

Price needed to retrieve his rifle, which lay in the middle of the clearing. Nikolai's was nowhere in sight – he might have dropped it over the front of the wall when he was shot, but Price wasn't about to stick his head up to find out. He found a dead tree branch. Staying low, he reached out, slipped it beneath the sling's webbing and started to pull. The AK dragged slowly along the ground, until the stick snapped. _Close enough_. He lunged out in a quick grab, yanking the gun toward himself.

With a loud _BANG_ and burst of sparks, the rifle jerked from his grasp. Price recoiled as if stung, hurling himself backward to safety. The gun had fallen back to its starting point, but with one addition: the sniper's bullet had left a big dent in the receiver.

_Shit._ He sucked in a grateful breath, sagging back against the wall's protective stones. He eyed his now-useless rifle. _Small payment for big stupidity._

"Tell them what you found," said Bogdan, helping Nikolai to his feet.

"Kalashnikovs, RPGs, ammo for both plus 12.7 millimeter," Sergei said. He pulled one of Nikolai's arms over his shoulder, and Bogdan pushed his large frame past Rev to take the other, earning a fleeting look of irritation from the American. Letting the matter drop, Rev instead picked up his M4. Anger smoldered beneath lowered eyelids and the stringy blond fringe spilling over the strap of his baseball cap. Price didn't doubt that the man, even with his back turned, could feel the unspoken challenge in Bogdan's dark eyes.

Buzz's face grew cold with fury as he stared at the blanket. "Son of a bitch."

Bogdan's voice was a low growl. "It won't be the only one."

With assistance, Nikolai took a few wobbly steps, and didn't seem too sure of where he was. "Where are we going?"

"We're taking you to the – "

Rev never finished his sentence. An explosion rocked the hillside directly below their vantage point, the concussion wave sending them all reeling. They were showered with a stinging spray of gravel and dirt.

"That was accurate – looks like the Flintstones brought a GPS with them when they were up here sneaking around. Get back to base and get Oracle on the horn," Buzz shouted.

"What about you?"

"We can try making our way down to the hillside trail from here, take the shortcut."

"Most of that's exposed."

"Not all of it. One thing's for sure – the next guy to set foot in this gap is gonna get smoked. Who knows, we might even get lucky."

Price caught Sergei's eyes, and answered his questioning look with a subtle nod. Refusal wasn't an option. Rev opened his mouth to protest, until they all heard the faint _whump_. Everyone, even Nikolai, ran like hell.

The 82 millimeter shell smashed down directly on the spot where they'd all been standing moments before, and Price wasn't quite fast enough. The blast sent him tumbling down the slope, a buzz saw of red-hot shrapnel flying over his head, chattering against the rocks and shredding the trees. There was nothing but tiny white stars, a loud maddening hum and the metallic taste of explosives in his mouth.

Pain was beginning to seep through the cottony numbness. He felt himself turning, felt hands slide under his hat to cradle his head, moving their way downward, feeling him for injuries. He struggled to focus on the blur in front of him, and couldn't comprehend the muffled voice through the ringing in his ears. The hands withdrew. With a flurry of movement, he was left staring into empty blue space.

Something hard bit into his knees and elbows when he rolled over, still trying to determine which way was up. An object was coming into focus in front of him: his own gloved hand splayed against the ground, coated with powdery dust. Trembling, he pushed himself up on all fours. He sniffled and wiped the moist warmth from his upper lip, examining the red smear on the back of his hand.

He felt the ground thumping beneath him, then heard the muffled crunch of approaching footsteps.

"Price – come on."

With a slow painful turn of his head, he peered up at another gloved hand in his face. Buzz towered over him, arm extended, with both his M4 and a soft rifle case slung over his uninjured shoulder.

"You're still in one piece, but not for long if you don't get up."

Price took the hand, which jerked him back onto his feet. " _Unh,"_ Buzz winced with the effort.

Price was hunched over, hands on his thighs, eyes shut tight while he waited for the world to stop spinning. The sharp tug on his chest rig almost sent him crashing back down again.

"Let's go!" Buzz shouted.

_Whump._

Their boots frantically pounded the uneven terrain, Price's arms windmilling to keep what little balance he had, weaving in a drunken rush down the path. Brambles snagged clothing and flesh as they ran in short downhill leaps, grabbing and shoving at anything that stuck out in order to prevent themselves from falling on their faces. His heart was slamming against his ribs, his throat raw from gasping for the breath that he'd never truly regained.

_Thud._

Spent, they threw themselves down in the lee of the hillside, and to the mercy of whatever was coming, hands thrown up to shield their faces. A few dirt clods and rocks bounced around them. A fine mist of soil, then silence, drifted down like snow.

They both lay on their backs, chests heaving. " _Pah!"_ Buzz spat dirt from his mouth and looked over at him. "You all right?"

"Yeah."

"That was quite a blast you took."

"Still breathing. Apart from the ribs, I'm fine."

Though he was anything but fine, he'd been left to count his blessings. A high-explosive blast wave could shatter a man on the inside, leaving him looking whole but spiraling toward rapid death. The blast at the bridge hadn't even been HE, and he'd barely survived it. He pushed the few remaining memories from his mind. The aftereffects might not be felt until much later; he swept that terrible knowledge aside also.

Buzz grimaced, looking down at his chest. "I hear ya. That one's going to leave a mark." He dropped his head back down in the dust, still breathing heavily.

Both were quiet for a few minutes, catching their breath.

_Whump._ The sound was further away than before.

Neither moved. They were off the hilltop now, and out of the line of fire.

_Thud._

"So...do much sniping in the SAS?"

Price huffed, and turned his head to shoot him a look of weary offense. "Surely you can't be serious."

"You don't say." His arm folded protectively over his injured right shoulder, his brow knotted in discomfort. "Well, I'm not much feeling up to it today. How about you do the honors? Here." He shoved the case over in Price's direction.

Price rolled up onto his good side and pulled it toward him. It was heavy. He felt a warm rush of pleasure as he guessed what he might find, and couldn't help his reaction when he unzipped it and saw the words CHEYTAC .408 INTERVENTION stamped into the metal. Not a problem.

"I thought that might put a smile on your face. Puts one on mine every time." He slid his hand to the center of his chest and smiled mockingly at the sky. "Warms my heart." The grin darkened. "Puts big holes in others." Buzz hefted his M4 and stood up with a groan.

The path they were on curved sharply right, with the edge of a cliff straight ahead of them. There was another rock ledge immediately below it, and a narrower one below that with a small knot of trees. The mountainside to their left partially blocked their view of the valley; they would have to climb down on the ledges to get a full visual of where their enemies were hiding.

Buzz grabbed a small bag from the rifle case. A slow slide on his rear brought him down to the first ledge, where he unzipped the bag and produced a spotting scope, weather meter and handheld targeting computer. He set his rifle down beside him and brought the scope to his eye, getting comfortable.

_Whump._

Price rummaged through the case, taking stock of the remaining contents: a partially full box of bullets, rifle magazines, a pad and some pencils, a cleaning kit, a bottle of water and a couple of protein bars.

_Thud._

He ripped one open, taking a bite, and began pushing bullets into a magazine.

"Hey," Buzz said with a lift of his chin at Price. "You mind?"

Without missing a beat, Price tossed him the other protein bar. Catching it, Buzz grunted in acknowledgment. He brought the scope back up as he chewed, doing a slow sweep of the landscape across the river.

"Hmm...good boys. They've got the mortar set up out of sight, behind a small ridge. I see their pickup truck parked down there, but other than their spotter running out to see how they did, I only get a quick peek at anybody in between a couple mounds of dirt." He squinted, scanning the surrounding area, and gave a low rumble of laughter. "Well, well...what do we have here?"

Price clicked the magazine into place and stood up, cradling the heavy Intervention in his arms. "What's that?"

"Lens flare. Just located our snipers. Just above and to the right of the mortar team. Two hunkered down next to a tree. That'll do for starters." He set the scope down and held the whirring weather meter aloft, taking a wind reading. Using its tiny plastic stylus, he punched the result into the targeting computer. "Now," he said, nodding toward the ledge below him and turning back to Price with a satisfied smile. "If you would be so kind."

* * *

Price sat sideways and cross-legged on the rocky outcropping, which was barely large enough to accommodate both him and the rifle. The gun was propped on a tree branchand supported with the folded-up rifle case. Their position was now diagonal to their targets, all of whom were still focused on the OP straight ahead of them.

"Look for the red pickup truck at your eight-o-clock, and keep going northeast. Immediately to the left of the crooked tree. 750 meters. Give it two to the right."

"I see them." Price twisted the scope's windage drum, feeling the two clicks, the stock warm against his cheek. The two dark-haired, bearded snipers lay on an outcropping not unlike their own, partially concealed beneath the tree branches, their plain brown clothing blending in with the dirt. One of them slowly elbowed his way backward from his rifle and eased down the back side of the ridge, leaving only the top of his head visible. "The one on the left just stood up."

"Break time," Buzz observed. Price focused on the prone shooter.

The scope's reticle zigzagged over the man's face, rising and falling with Price's breathing. The enemy sniper was a picture of stillness, his expression one of utter concentration and intent, still seeking targets up by the rock wall. Price's chest was thumping. He was still in fight-or-flight mode from his close shave. It wasn't like he'd never done this before. Annoyed with himself, he took some deep breaths, willing his heartbeat to slow down, and it obeyed.

_Breathe._

Price took a deep inhale, finger barely resting on the trigger. He was ready. The reticle once again alighted on the man's face.

_Slow is smooth and smooth is fast._

A slow exhale, a gentle squeeze. The buttstock slammed into his shoulder with an echoed _CRACK_. Inhale.

With a pink burst, the body dropped facedown in a ragdoll jumble. He released pressure, feeling the click of the trigger reset beneath his finger.

"Hit." Buzz's voice was without emotion.

With a twist and a jerk of Price's hand, the empty bullet casing spun out in a smoking arc. He settled his finger back on the trigger.

The remaining man ran over to investigate. Decent shooters maybe, but seasoned fighters – not so much. Price allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Squeeze. A punch in the shoulder.

The man staggered, hands on his chest. He fell writhing to his knees alongside his dead comrade, suffering the fate they had just attempted to exact on Buzz.

"Hit. A little rusty, huh?"

"Shut up."

Price racked the bolt and took a followup shot. The man folded over backwards and didn't move again.

"Nice. I don't think they'll be shooting at us again for a while," said Buzz. "Now about that mortar team..."

On scope, both men slowly panned in a multicolored blur, attempting to get a glimpse of the men gathered around the mortar tube.

A white streak plunged to Earth and smote the mortarmen like a bolt of lightning. A fountain of dirt, rock and tree branches burst into the air, along with a ragged swirl of what used to be human. The mountains shook with the sound of thunder.

They looked at one another in momentary disbelief. Buzz's expression was a mixture of amusement and embarrassment.

"Oops."

Startled, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a vibrating satellite phone. He glanced at the screen, extending its thick antenna. "Yeah? Nice one, good effect on – " The smile faded. Price was quickly learning that this was not a good thing.

It got worse. "How many?" For the first time, Price saw the man's face growing pale beneath his sunburn. His voice lowered to a whisper, which to Price sounded an alarm. "Well see what you can do." Thumbing the red button, he turned to Price. "We've got company. Oracle just spotted seven foot-mobiles coming up on our six. They're too close to strike with the drone, and air support's at least half an hour away. We gotta move."

Price lowered his voice in response. "Move where?" The only path was the one behind them, a steep rocky plunge was directly in front.

"Hug the cliff face, they're almost on top of us!"

Using exposed tree roots as handholds, the two eased down over the edge, stashing their rifles and equipment beneath the rocky shelf. Their hearts pounded with both urgency and the knowledge that a bad step or snagged gear could spell disaster.

"They're just seeing them now?" Price hissed. He sidestepped his way out over the precipice, watching gravel spill between his feet and tumble out of sight.

"The blanket-party boys, probably. Who knows."

They heard voices, growing louder by the second. They pressed themselves flat against the rock, heads craned sideways, eyes glued to the cliff edge above them. If the enemy infantrymen had been close enough, then they would have heard the Intervention despite its suppressor.

Price froze – a pair of tattered Nikes and baggy gray pant legs appeared directly over Buzz's head. The Texan's stiff posture indicated that yes, he was very much aware of that. Body odor alone announced the strangers' presence. Price didn't recognize the language, but their hushed tones told him enough. These men were hunting them. Their plan was now obvious: inflict casualties with sniper fire, follow up with mortars to cause chaos and division, then track down the survivors. Were they just out to kill them, or would they drag them off to some other fate? Kamarov had told him a few war stories; this was the same country that saw captured Soviets left tied to trees, skinned alive and covered with flies. Hardly daring to breathe, Price watched Buzz's hand slowly drift to his hip, unsnapping the thumb break on his holster.

The flesh of his scalp crawled. A stream of crumbling dirt rained down over his shoulders and pattered against his hat, spilling down over the brim. Someone was standing over him too. His fingers curled around the grip of his own pistol...

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

**_Chto_? [** **Что]** \- What?

**_Tvoyu Mat [Твою мать]_ ** _\- motherfucker!_

_'Blue Badger' - Having a blue badge indicates an actual employee of the CIA, while a green badge is issued to contractors_


	12. Coursing

Caught in the open, dead to rights. All they could do was stand stock-still and wide-eyed, like rabbits.

Each man gripped his pistol, resisting the urge to draw it from the holster. Doing so would attract the attention of their pursuers, who now stood directly over the top of their hiding place. It was a struggle to keep their breathing slow, even and quiet against the pounding of their hearts.

The strangers whispered amongst themselves, sounding alert but not alarmed. After what seemed ages, their footsteps and voices begin to retreat. Price and Buzz waited a few more minutes, then Buzz risked a look over his shoulder at Price.

They shared a cautious exhale. Neither spoke. Both knew better – they didn't know how many, or where, or how far. They began to pick their way back along the cliff face to safety. Reaching the end first, Buzz pulled his M4 from where he'd stashed it. He abruptly flattened back against the natural wall of rock, holding up a clenched fist. Price reacted immediately, squatting down and drawing his pistol, keeping it low to avoid crossing Buzz. He watched Buzz inhaling deeply, flinty eyes fixed on the cliff edge above them. The wind changed, and he caught a whiff too. Someone was still there.

The telltale business end of an AK-47 appeared overhead and swung over to fix on Price, its owner materializing above Buzz once more. He looked to be in his thirties, small and wiry. He wore a traditional black turban and long gray _shalwar kameez,_ the tattered Nikes on his feet. His camouflage vest bulged with a couple of spare AK magazines. Dark eyes glittered below a nest of wiry black hair, a smirk partially hidden behind a full beard.

The man spoke, chuckling as he did so.

_Like rabbits, all right,_ thought Price. _Just bagged himself two of 'em._ He wondered if the man had purposely stayed behind after the main group walked away, leading his quarry to believe that they were safe to let their guard down. It was what Price himself would have done.

The words were incomprehensible but the meaning clear as Nike man motioned with the rifle. Price slowly raised his free hand while setting his pistol on the ground, then raised the other. Though it was ill-advised to do so, Price looked him in the eye and held it. There was no fear there, nor quivering excitement. Just experience, and intent.

_Fuck._

Buzz stirred in his peripheral vision. Price didn't dare follow the movement, or take his eyes off his captor. The man's face showed cold satisfaction as he took aim.

Buzz's hand shot up to grab the barrel of the AK. The rifle barked out a string of wild shots, stitching the rock above Price's head. With his free arm wrapped around a loop of exposed tree root, the Texan pulled hard, yanking the man over the edge. The man bicycled his legs in a desperate bid to stop himself, knocking the Intervention from its perch as he fell off the cliff, screaming. He almost dragged Buzz with him, leaving him dangling by one hand and scrabbling to regain purchase. The heavy steel rifle swept into Price, sending his body twisting into empty air.

"PRICE!"

Buzz's shout was the last thing Price heard before a bone-jarring crash to Earth, then he was tumbling in a hissing rockfall of loose shale, enveloped in clouds of choking dust. He rolled and bounced over uneven ground, sharp blows pummeling him on all sides. He managed to get his feet in front of him as he paddled his arms and legs against the rocky current, his descent slowing but still uncontrolled. He squinted against the blinding flurry of dirt and rock fragments to see another steep drop-off looming in front of him. He felt the thud of a blast somewhere below, and he furiously pedaled his heels into the loose ground to try and prevent the inevitable. Small shrubs and trees sped by, snapping in his grasping hands. He was launched again into the air for another crushing landing, then more sliding until solid ground finally greeted him with a cruel burst of white pain, then darkness.

A distant rattle penetrated the eerie silence, followed by a miserable coughing fit stifled by the crook of his bent elbow and the ground; he was lying facedown. Another crackling, echoed burst. Gunfire. The side of his head was warm and wet. He heard a moan, and for a moment thought it was coming from him. He gasped, fingers curling into a handful of dirt. Whatever healing he'd accomplished over the last few days had just been undone. Every painful breath was a reminder of that.

He wondered what further damage he'd just taken. If it was bad enough, their journey would be over before it had even started. He'd nearly gotten Soap killed, he _had_ to get him out of here. It couldn't end like this.

_Get your arse up, John!_

How many times had he hauled MacTavish up off the ground? _Pain is only temporary,_ he'd lectured him. Now it was time for him to follow his own advice.

_Do it – do it now!_

The gunfire intensified. AKs, punctuated with bursts from an M4 – Buzz, who was now alone against the entire enemy element. That chilling thought and another moan snapped Price to attention. Wincing, he lifted his head. His hat lay just in front of him. He pushed himself up on his forearms with a grunt, reaching for it. His focus shifted, and what he saw in the distance made him stop, his outstretched hand frozen in midair. It was an amputated human leg, still wrapped in a shred of gray fabric, the foot still wearing the now-familiar shoe.

Its former owner was sprawled out a few meters away, surrounded by a corona of loose soil and a pool of dark red mud. He wasn't moving, and his groans were fading as quickly as he was. With growing dismay, Price noticed that the red arterial spray on the stones next to the man almost matched the color of other, deliberately painted rocks encircling the area in which they both lay. It was a warning that he recognized at once.

His gaze swept slowly backward and inward, looking for anything out of place, until he registered an unusual shape in the dirt beneath his face; a half-round edge that interrupted the natural contours of what appeared to be an unpaved road. He eased back into his original position, shaking with the effort it took to move with such painstaking slowness.

He had just landed in a minefield.

He looked again, seeing suspicious lumps and depressions on all sides. He could have dismissed some of this as imaginary, except one clearly exposed something dull and black.

The gunfire was getting louder, the battle making its way down the hillside. Perfect. Here he was, unarmed, and... Looking at the man in front of him, Price swept the inevitable gallows humor aside with a sigh. If he tried to do a runner, he stood an excellent chance of being blown apart. Nike man was a recently-living testament to the fact that what was buried in this ring of red-painted stones still worked. So now what?

Following what sounded like a grenade, the M4 announced itself again. Buzz was still alive, and getting closer. The AKs answered.

A drawling shout rained down from above. "Price! Don't move – that place is full of landmines!"

Unable to look up at him, Price settled for plopping his head back down on his forearm. _Thanks for the heads-up._

It wasn't long before the man himself appeared, his reddened face streaked with dust and sweat. "Still in one piece, I see." Buzz glanced at the body of Nike man. " _Heh_ , unlike some people." He took up a position behind a boulder, ready to fire on the path he'd just taken downhill.

"An astute observation, I could say the same of you," Price mumbled into the crook of his arm.

Looking through his M4's holographic sight, Buzz's eyes flicked back momentarily to Price. "Man, you look like a bug on a windshield. Y'all right, can you move?"

A weak chuckle ended as a cough. "Cheers," said Price, his eyes clamped shut against the pain, mouth pressed into a thin line. "Yeah, I think so."

"Good. So don't."

"Get me the hell out of here."

"Yeah,well... " As Buzz's voice trailed off, the entire hillside came alive with AK fire. It couldn't possibly all be from the small party of men they'd seen. He sounded almost embarrassed in his reluctance. "...there's that. The Russians are on their asses now, the problem with that being that they might flush them back down on top of us. You don't have a weapon, do you?"

"No."

"Under the circumstances, tossing you one is pretty much out of the question. On top of that," he said, eyeballing the level window on his rifle's plastic magazine and ejecting the one from his pistol for a quick look. "I'm almost dry."

The gunfire was now joined by a new sound: the throaty snort of a four-stroke engine, possibly an approaching motorbike. The noise multiplied – there were more than one. Were these enemy reinforcements? The two men looked at each other in alarm.

The engine noise grew louder. Price was silent for a moment. Visions of skinned Soviet corpses flashed through his mind once again, along with other, even less savory images. "Are there at least enough left for us?"

Buzz, for once, had no witty comeback for that – just a small, wry smile. "Scout's honor. If it comes down to that, I promise your death will not be televised."

_Be blown up by a landmine. Capture, torture and eventual killing by enemies. Simply shot by enemies, or shot by friendlies. Brilliant list of choices. Maybe I should have listened to my father after all._

The noise now drowned out all else. A quad bike flew up over the crest of the hill, squatting onto its shocks as it landed on the roadbed ahead of them. The rider gunned the throttle and turned hard, spinning the machine halfway around in a wave of gravel, then skidded to a stop at the edge of the minefield. He cut the engine and dismounted. Unslinging an AK-74 from his back, he brought it to his shoulder and approached Price. The remaining engine noise, presumably belonging to more quads, rose from below, peppered by the sounds of continuing gunfire above.

The man swept his surroundings with the rifle. He gave a momentary glance uphill, not seeing Buzz crouched down behind his boulder. He advanced with smooth strides, heel-toe-heel, eyes and gunsights moving as one. This was a trained soldier, not some ragtag militiaman. Yet between his ride and his clothing, he wasn't anyone's regular military either. A shemagh was wrapped around his head and face. His long sleeved, button-down shirt was covered with a multipocketed vest, the type often favored by journalists. He wore olive-drab combat trousers, and hiking boots that were in reasonably good shape.

The man propped a foot atop one of the painted rocks, leaning in to get a better look at Nike man's remains. When he'd had his fill, he followed the border of red stones to stand near Price.

_If you're going to make a move, Buzz, now's the time._

The eyes peering from between the folds of checkered fabric were a startling pale green, not unusual in this part of the world. He was of a medium height and build, neither white nor particularly dark-skinned. Slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, the man pulled the scarf from his face. Around Soap's age, with a tousled mop of black wavy hair and a short growth of beard.

Price was stunned. _Of all people..._

He squatted down, regarding Price with a baleful stare, until he spoke in an accent identical to Price's own.

"All right, mate. You seem to be in a bit of a pickle."

"Armaan," Buzz called, revealing his presence.

Armaan stood to face him, throwing up his hands in mock outrage. He looked back over his shoulder at Price. "There goes the neighborhood."

Buzz grinned, shaking his hand. "Just the man we need. Our friend here could use some of your magic."

Armaan mopped his brow with the shemagh and knotted it loosely around his neck. "Don't worry," he said, flashing a smile at Price. "The doctor is in."

The gunfire had ceased, though the sound of approaching engines was getting louder. "Sounds like the wagons are circling," said Buzz. He turned to wander toward the road's edge for confirmation.

"Too right," replied Armaan, squatting back down to Price. He glanced over his shoulder at Buzz, who was waving at the approaching vehicles. He eyed the crumpled boonie hat and frowned. "Do I know you?"

Price's eyes narrowed. "No." Armaan's eyebrows shot up.

The quads arrived, bearing a pack of large, scruffy, bearded men. Like the locals, they wore _patou_ shawls, vests and mushroom-like woolen _pakol_ hats, but that was where the similarities ended. Most were white, and carried what looked like HK416s. A closer look revealed knee pads, body armor and other tactical gear. When they cut the engines, their accents told the rest of the story. It was a sound Price had dreaded hearing, and now here it was.

"The Americans – SEALs?" Price lowered his voice, keeping an eye on the group. He already knew the answer.

Armaan hesitated before answering. "Delta." The green eyes bored into Price. "Something tells me your current predicament isn't your biggest worry right now," he muttered. "But one disaster at a time." He stood and turned back to his quad and the various bags strapped to it, fetching a metal detector. "Right." He began to wave it over the edge of the minefield.

The resulting squeals of the detector were numerous. There was no clear path for Price to follow.

Armaan sighed. "Nothing's easy, is it?" He went back to his bags and returned with a slim, plastic-handled metal rod, about half a meter in length. Back at his starting point, he kneeled and set to work, carefully and methodically probing the dirt. "I don't suppose I need to stress the importance of keeping still, so you don't turn us both into baked beans, yeah?"

Price glared over the horizon of his forearm. Unfazed, Armaan barely looked at him. "I'll take those fearsome daggers as a 'negative'."

Buzz was in deep conversation with some of the new arrivals. A couple of the newcomers broke away from the group, rifles up, scanning the surroundings. Another spoke into his radio, then raised his voice to relay the message.

"All right. Russians are mopping up. Who's hungry?"

There was a rough chorus of agreement. The radio man approached Price and Armaan, whom thus far had unearthed a few pieces of shrapnel and an old can. He was tall and broad, with shaggy shoulder-length auburn hair and an impressive beard. Ink scrolled over the exposed skin between his tan jacket sleeves and dusty black Mechanix gloves. He observed the work in silence, pulling out a green tin of chewing tobacco and stuffing a pinch into his lip. It muffled his speech.

"Price?"

Price sighed into the crook of his arm, where he'd attempted to shield his face from the sun already burning his scalp. Buzz had undoubtedly told them. Between the Delta/SAS relationship and his past work as an instructor, he'd never had a chance of concealing his identity anyway, not in this crowd. His reputation in the SF community alone could have done him in, both for his past exploits and the pleasure he'd taken in 'welcoming' trainees to Credenhill.

He squinted an eye up from beneath the shade of his upraised hand, replying to the pair of Oakley sunglasses staring down at him. "Yeah."

"I'm Hagar."

Price couldn't help himself. "Hagar?"

"Yeah...you know, like Hagar the Horrible?" Price gave him a blank look. The man tried again. "The viking in the comic strip? No? C'mon, don't you read the funny pages?"

Armaan paused as his probe struck something substantial. "Hmm...what's this, then?" He drew his knife.

"Ah. Well," Hagar began his retreat toward the rest of the group, who were gathered at a safe distance. He grinned and threw Price a quick wave. "I'll just be over here."

Using his blade, Armaan dug an outline around the object, then casually pulled the dirty green puck from its hole. Price did his best not to cringe.

"PMN," Armaan murmured, sounding satisfied. "The common scourge." He removed the booster, detonator and firing pin, set the pieces aside, and resumed probing. Eyeing the now-inert mine, Price let out the breath he'd been holding.

Armaan spared him a brief glance, then returned his full attention to his task. "Still with me? Not feeling itchy, I hope?" Amusement flickered across his face at Price's ill-tempered grunt.

Time passed, with the occasional inquiry from Buzz and the Americans. "We're not getting any younger, you know," one said.

"Or any less of a target," another man added. They'd set up a perimeter, taking cover where they could. A few scoped out the surrounding high ground, guided over the radio by those monitoring the Predator's video feed.

"Well, I could employ the official Afghan method and start heaving rocks in there, but I don't think he'd go for that," Armaan replied.

He picked his way toward Price, probing for buried objects and carefully excavating them with his knife. This slow process was giving Price entirely too much time to think about what he shouldn't. Like the sweat breaking out on his burning forehead, and the sticky streaks of blood on his face that were drying into a crust, just as an ooze of fresh bleeding followed the same trickling course. The adrenalin rush had committed its usual deceit, briefly sheltering him from the worst of his pain before abandoning him to it. Between the position he was stuck in and the agony in his ribs, he was having difficulty breathing. It was getting worse. Had he punctured a lung this time?

_Stay calm, focus on something else._

Like what, the potential instability of aging mines laid by the Soviets? Armaan appeared unconcerned, he wasn't even wearing any protective gear. _Cheeky bugger._ Though he had a shed load of questions, Price knew better than to try engaging Armaan in conversation, and the lad offered none.

Armaan found and disarmed another mine, then gave the area another sweep with the metal detector. Dread washed over Price when he heard the squeal, though he'd expected it. It was the one buried practically under his nose. "One more," said Armaan. Price squinted at him through the bright sunlight. Armaan carefully leaned over, plucked the hat from the ground and settled it atop Price's head. "All right?" Price, now better able to look back at him, nodded.

Price held his breath again while Armaan chipped away at the dirt, then had to let it out when he grew dizzy. He panted in shallow breaths, the pain and apprehension keeping him from the deep gulp of air that he needed. A bead of sweat ran down and dangled from the tip of his nose. Armaan, though still not looking at him, was paying attention. "Just hold on, almost got it. _Don't move,"_ he growled, the attempt at reassurance becoming stern. "We've gotten this far, now don't go cocking up the endgame."

Finally, Armaan set the mine and its parts aside, then looked at Price. "Okay, watch your step," he said, eyes flashing in warning again. "If you're feeling wobbly, you'd best tell me now."

His jaw set into a determined mask, Price gripped Armaan's offered hand and pushed himself off the ground. His face creased in discomfort, a groan escaping despite his best efforts as he stiffly stood up and took slow, careful steps.

"Cheer up, mate. Your head's still attached, though this _is_ Afghanistan and the day's not over yet," said Armaan. Price shrugged off his assistance and staggered past the border of red stones, leaving him standing amid a ruin of overturned earth and scrap metal. Armaan's mild offense dissipated in a wry chuckle at Price's retreating back. "You're welcome."

Hagar spat and lifted an eyebrow at Price's torn clothing. "I hear that air-conditioned pants are all the rage these days." He leaned to one side, getting a good look. "Looks like you just had yourself a literal ass-beating."

"So why don't you kiss it and make it better?" The eruption of laughter was drowned out by the sputter of engines starting up.

The Delta man's face fell when he spotted something lying in the roadside ditch. It was the Intervention. He stooped to pick it up, bringing an eye to the very expensive and now-shattered scope. "Ohh," he moaned. "See, now this is why we can't have nice things." He shoved the gun into a rack bolted to the side of the ATV, strapped it down and climbed aboard, patting the seat behind him. "C'mon old timer," he said, giving Price a tobacco-stained grin. "You're ridin' bitch with me."

Price was far too tired and sore to give that the response that it deserved. He clambered up behind him without a word. Hagar thumbed the throttle, and Price's fingers gripped the rack just in time to prevent himself from being thrown over backward. With a dusty roar, they were gone.

* * *

 

A group of Loyalists were waiting by the bunker's southern entrance, Sergei and Bogdan among them. They zigzagged through the crowd of men dismounting from their vehicles. Hagar was already on foot, digging through the bags. Price still sat hunched over on the back of the quad bike, his face and body tense. The bumpy ride had added yet more insult to injury. He felt like shit, and could only imagine how he looked. What he could see of himself was spattered with mud, which accented the stiff collage of dried blood and dirt on his clothes.

"Their scouts are dead, but the _dukhi_ will soon be back. They always are," Sergei said, helping Price to slowly climb down. He looked troubled. "This time was different – some of them had night vision gear."

"We found another cache, more of the same," said Bogdan, moving to Price's other side to help.

"Seems these boys have some big plans," Buzz frowned. His eyes narrowed. "I say it's time we oblige them." There were nods from some of the men. He looked over at Price. "You gonna make it?"

Price nodded, wincing, his arms draped over the Russians' shoulders.

"Infirmary," said Sergei. "Let's go."

"No argument here," Price gasped.

That seemed to satisfy Buzz, who turned back to the Delta group. "Dinner, then hot wash in an hour," he said.

Leaning heavily on Sergei and Bogdan, Price limped down the corridor. Once the voices had faded and they'd turned the corner, Price straightened, freeing himself from their support, and strode forward toward the infirmary. With a sideways glance at each other, the Russians picked up their pace to match his.

* * *

Price arrived to find Soap brooding in a chair at Nikolai's bedside, his IV line trailing to the pole behind him. A striped brown patou was draped across MacTavish's shoulders. His head was bowed, his fingers kneading the stubble of beard on his chin. Nikolai's face was relaxed in sleep. Bandages encircled his forehead and jaw, securing the thick white dressing that padded the side of his head. The short plastic stub of an IV lock was taped to the back of his hand, which rested on the slowly rising and falling blanket.

Soap's eyes widened when he looked up and saw the filthy battered state that Price was in. He opened his mouth to speak, but Price beat him to it.

"Looks like we're three for three, quite the track record. How is he?"

"Misha says he's going be all right. Nasty headache, though. Just fell asleep about 20 minutes ago." MacTavish's furrowed brow had relaxed, and now his mouth twitched with a poor attempt to suppress a grin. "Looks like somebody got the good news, but I'm not sure who. You sort out your sniper problem, Old Man?"

"How long have you known me?"

Soap chuckled and hissed in pain, clutching his abdomen.

Price gave a scoff of amusement. "Then the CIA brought their Predator to the party – it was a real blowout." He took a quick visual assessment of MacTavish. Though it was good to see him sitting upright, Soap looked haggard. He'd lost weight. "And what about you?" Price asked.

Soap sighed. "Sore, tired of being tired. Bored out of my mind, although I have been keeping on top of the latest in Russian fashion," he nodded his head back toward a pile of Sergei's magazines on his bedside table. He closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "...and I'm starving."

"Is that right?" Price raised his eyebrows at that. "Sounds like you're ready to travel." He looked over his shoulder. "It's getting crowded around here."

Soap's face hardened into the familiar determined look. "I'm ready to do what I have to." His gaze fell. "Though I'm not so sure about my tour guide."

Price looked down. Red drops speckled the floor next to his muddy boots, and Price followed them up to the blood-soaked shreds of his sleeve and glove. That explained the stinging he'd been ignoring – some of it, anyway. He looked at what remained of his sleeves. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if the morning's weather had been warmer.

As for MacTavish's doubts, Price had a few of his own, though Soap's will wasn't one of them. His stomach churned. Buzz was right, there truly was no rest for the weary.

Nikolai groaned, throwing his arm across his tightly-closed eyes, avoiding the sore side of his head. "Do the two of you ever shut up?" He put his pillow over his face.

Price brightened at the prospect of some karmic payback. "Morning, sunshine. You look like you could use a coffee."

The voice beneath the pillow was muffled. " _Po'shyol 'na hui."_

Soap's smile now threatened to split his bruised face. Price grinned, though he spared himself the discomfort of a laugh. "I'd say he begs to differ." Since Nikolai's curt reply was unlike him, Price decided that was enough for now. Besides, he had to save some wind-up opportunities for later.

So much for that. Kamarov swept into the room, Misha beside him. He spoke at full volume, eliciting another groan from beneath the pillow. "It was in his ear. Once the surgeon pulled it out and saw light on the other side, he knew everything was back to normal." The comment from the pillow was unintelligible. Kamarov chuckled, then quieted as he took in the sight of Price's ragged appearance.

"He'll be up in a day or so. Until then, we need to keep him quiet and watch for complications," said Misha, who proceeded to look Price up and down. "Like we tried to do with you."

"I'm okay."

"Oh yes – how could we forget," said Misha, rolling his eyes. He pulled away the pillow, receiving a squawk of protest, and turned Nikolai's wincing face aside in order to examine the dressing. "Sasha," he barked.

Kamarov shook his head with a smile. "Some things never change." He shot a knowing glance at Misha.

Sasha appeared next to Price and grasped Price's dripping hand, inspecting the wound. "Take care of that," said Misha. "He's making a mess of the place."

Sasha nodded his head towards the door. " _Po'shyol,"_ he grunted, followed by more Russian. To Price's surprise, he switched to broken English. "You _fucking_ mess."

"Price," said Kamarov. "When you're all patched up," he wrinkled his nose "...and cleaned up, I'll be in my office. We have much to discuss."

Price watched Misha replace Nikolai's pillow and help him get settled. He met Kamarov's eyes with a frown. "That we do."

"Well if that's all decided, then everyone who isn't a patient here – out. They both need rest," said Misha.

Soap scowled up at him. "What I need is food."

That was music to Price's ears, easing his annoyance at the dour medic herding him into a nearby exam area. At last, something else was starting to resemble normalcy.

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

**_Po'shyol 'na hui [_ ** _**Пошёл на́ хуй]** \- Fuck off, lit. 'get on a dick'_


	13. The Crow

Price's hair was clean but still damp, beneath the hat that was still dirty. The quick shower had been both a blessing and a curse, draining away some of the ache while leaving every fresh cut and bruise stinging. As he picked his way through an obstacle course of boxes in the corridor, the fabric of the clean long-sleeved gray t-shirt and khaki combat trousers was starting to stick to him – the latest insults to his skin were scabbing over. Fresh white bandages swathed his forearm and wrist, looping around his thumb. The gash on his arm, like the one on his scalp, had required stitches.

Less than an hour before in the infirmary, a paper drape protecting his eyes from both the bright light and what Sasha was doing, Price had said little. He'd sought to occupy his mind with anything other than the present, occasionally brought back to it by the tug of sutures in numb flesh. Sasha's repertoire of English was minimal, but Misha had come in once he was finished with Soap and Nikolai. As Price had feared, Nikolai wouldn't be coming with them. His injury put him at risk for bleeding into his head; any exertion right now could prove deadly. Price had offered affirmative mumbles at the appropriate times, all while resisting the urge to simply roll off the table and leave. When they'd finally finished, he'd felt their eyes following him on his way out.

He'd been shocked when he'd wiped away the steam from the mirror. What a state he was in. The mottled compilation of bruises and scabs on his face continued down his torso, culminating in a large bloom of purple on his left side. He could still count his ribs easily. While Price had never been one for tattoos, no ink was needed to tell his story - not after the years had carved it in scar tissue: crooked, puckered marks from injuries, straight lines from repairing them. Now fresh pink scars had joined the faded white ones; Makarov's men had left their signature as well. The fog hadn't yet fully reclaimed the image before he'd chosen to look away rather than drive his fist into the glass.

A handful of Loyalist soldiers were busy with the contents of the crates and pallets stacked in the hallway outside the office. Price stepped around them to find Kamarov waiting for him. After closing the door behind them, Kamarov motioned toward a plate of food sitting on the desk. After settling himself into the swivel chair, Price tore into it without bothering to ask what it was.

After watching Price eat for a few minutes, Kamarov lit a cigarette, snapping his lighter shut with a _clink_. "I've arranged for your escort. Traveling at night is, of course, out of the question. You'll leave at first light and be at the safe house by late afternoon."

Price, his mouth full, nodded. The sharp scent of cloves filled the room, making him glad he was nearly finished eating.

"Don't worry about Nikolai, we'll take good care of him. It's his greatest asset, you know – his thick skull." Kamarov rapped his knuckles against the side of his own head, smiling.

Price's shoulders shook with a huff as his eyebrows shot up. _You've got that right, mate._

"He'll be back at the safe house with you before you know it. Now as for you," Kamarov said, indicating a cot in the corner. "You have to get some rest while you can. My men will be outside that door."

Price swallowed the last of his meal. The back of his bandaged hand was almost to his lips when he caught himself, awkwardly wiping his mouth with his left hand instead. "Nothing's been said to you, I take it?"

Just outside the beam of the ceiling's single cage lamp, Kamarov was shrouded in shadows, the crown of his thick reddish-blond hair gleaming, encircled in hazy blue rings of smoke. "No, not yet. And it wouldn't anyway, they know our history. It doesn't matter. The Americans won't make their move here. They can't afford it – they need us more than we need them," he said.

_As much as I'd like to believe that, I don't – not for a second._

An orange glow from the cigarette penetrated the darkness, smoke swirling in baroque eddies as Kamarov stepped into the cone of light. He pulled a silver flask from his pocket and after taking a swig, offered it.

Earlier in the infirmary, Price had refused an offer of painkillers. He needed to keep a clear head, he'd told them. While that had been true - more or less - he was now regretting that decision. He took the flask and hissed at the sting of the alcohol on his split lip. Oban 14 it definitely wasn't. However, after the first swallow burned its way down, the vodka left soothing warmth in its wake, relaxing him. He cautiously leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on a box. They passed the flask back and forth a few times until Price sighed, closing his eyes. Kamarov was correct; he had to get his head down.

Kamarov sat on the edge of the desk, the cigarette smoldering between two fingers. His eyes roved the cluttered office, remembering. "When we last fought together, how could we ever imagine that in five years we'd both be wanted men?"

Price opened his eyes again with a shrug. "Guess I didn't think I'd live that long."

"We didn't think you were going to live at all. You weren't awake for it, but I came to see you in the hospital. You were in a bad way, my friend." Kamarov shook his head. "MacTavish didn't want to leave without you, but the doctors refused to clear you for transport. He was finally ordered onto the plane, not knowing if he'd see you again."

Price frowned. His recovery had been long and painful, starting with the truth he'd been avoiding: his time with the SAS was over. After 17 years, his injuries had finished it. When the Russians finally did put him on the plane home, he'd been thankful for the sedative the flight nurse gave him. After being transferred to the military hospital in Birmingham, he'd spent the first week just lying there, numb from both the pain meds and the regret of his career not having ended on his own terms.

_Enough of that self-pitying bollocks – that's the bloody alcohol talking_ _._ Disgusted, he pushed the memory aside and forced a thin smile.

"Not just wanted men. Kamarov the revolutionary?" He chuckled, this time with genuine mirth. When they'd first met, Price had been pretty sure that family connections were the only thing standing between Kamarov and one of the Russian Army's dreaded penal battalions. "Who could have seen that one?"

Kamarov grinned. "Certainly not me."

"I never took you for an idealist."

"You shouldn't, look what we're protecting," Kamarov said dryly. "I was, though – once, as you were." He took a drag on his cigarette, his gaze flicking downward before looking Price in the eye. "We've both done things we weren't proud of. Could you have come this far without it?"

Price answered with a swallow from the flask. Kamarov continued, a quiet earnesty creeping into his voice.

"I was barely eighteen when I first came here with the Soviet Army. We'd all heard stories. But as we'd waved goodbye to our families, we didn't want to believe them. 'Death by a thousand cuts'." His eyebrows shot up with the quote. "We thought we were here to protect the Afghans." He snorted. "How noble. Sent without adequate food, clothing or supplies, and not enough men. Our enemies slowly picked us apart while we crumbled from within. I watched good soldiers – men I'd looked up to – reduced to beggars and thieves, drug addicts and murderers. When I could no longer accept what I saw, I chose to stop looking. Most of us did. Finally, we crawled back across the Amu Darya with our tails between our legs."

"Doing what we do, being what we are… For most of us, it can't begin without belief in something," said Price. "Forged as tools of war by the flames of conviction. Used now, someday set aside…if we survive to outlive our usefulness."

"Set aside," Kamarov said with a bitter smile, taking a drink. "It changed me, so much that Katya no longer recognized the man she'd married." His head dipped, his eyes lowering for a moment. "We were so young. But I was not the only thing that had changed. The country I returned to was not the same one I'd left _._

"A new openness, people daring to speak out, to dream again. Hope rising from the ashes of an empire. But all the hope in the world won't put loaves of bread on empty shelves. Those were hard times, Price. But we Russians know a thing or two about survival – and about opportunity. The brutes and highwaymen had gathered under a different banner, and while everyone else struggled, they rose to vast wealth. Feeding on a fragile economy like cancer until the country's core was rotten, a feast waiting for the worms, once fear and uncertainty had paved the way."

When Price gripped the offered flask, Kamarov held onto it for a second before letting go. Price was taken aback at the uncharacteristic intensity burning in the former sergeant's eyes.

"And for those of us who'd made it back, what was our place in this new reality? We found out soon enough, and it wasn't what we'd signed up for. I hated what we had become, how far we'd fallen. Like so many, I wanted out, yet what else could I do? I'm a third generation soldier, Price - my grandfather was at Stalingrad. When your chosen path is no longer one of honor, when you can no longer hide from the things you've either done or failed to prevent…what's left after that, other than self-destruction?

"I wish we could have met at a different time, so that wasn't how you first knew me. I didn't care anymore, was beyond caring about whether I lived or died - I was in good company there. We'd lost our way…until Zakhaev. It made me proud again to serve the Motherland. That's what I thought I was doing when we went after them. When he went down, it was the best moment of my career." Staring into space, he raised the cigarette to his lips. "And then one day we were patriots, the next day…insurgents." With a wry smile and a sideways glance, he inhaled and let the smoke out in an abrupt blast, like a release of pressure. "It never ceases to amaze…the labels applied to you, and the crimes you're suddenly guilty of when you find yourself on the wrong side of whoever controls the media."

An eyebrow raised, Price smiled coldly into the flask.

"I didn't sweat and bleed all these years to be left on the outside looking in," said Kamarov. "Now _we're_ the extremists, and some of the same men who stood with Zakhaev in Pripyat now sit in the Duma?" Kamarov ground out the cigarette on the desktop, his face hardened with anger. "The State harassed our families, seized our homes and property. Took my grandfather's _dacha_ where I used to pick mushrooms as a boy, where I took my wife when we were still together. I just want to go home, Price – finally. It's _my_ home. I'm not spending the rest of my days cowering in some sad third world shithole. Are you? What will you do?"

"For now, lie low and heal."

"We can still help you do that. We need men like you, in order to put things right again."

"Are you asking me to join the cause?"

"Think about it. There are a great many Russians who won't stand for this madness. You could help end this war, from the inside. You know it won't stop with America. Others will soon be drawn into the arena." Kamarov paused for a moment, allowing the implications to sink in. "And even if it ended tomorrow, and the truth uncovered..." His voice softened even as his gaze became more direct. "...Do you think all will be forgiven?"

"Soap's in no condition for that, and at the moment, neither am I," said Price. Though the partial explanation sounded like an excuse, it was best to keep the remainder to himself. He didn't have the energy to debate Kamarov on typical outcomes of a _coup d'état_. For a Russian, such a history lesson would be an insult. Not only that, but Price recalled the fates of other operators who had taken up political causes not their own. They'd wound up languishing in places even more grim than the one he'd just escaped from.

After a short silence, Price straightened in his chair. "What happened at the OP today, you know they were just taking your measure. How much longer are you planning to hole up here?"

"Oh, they'll be back, of course. We are almost ready to pack up and leave anyway. I never want to see this place again - the _dukhi_ can have it. The time is coming, Price, and not a moment too soon. After all the broken promises, Russia is going to have the government it deserves at last."

Price tilted the flask, indicating that it was empty. Kamarov pulled a bottle from the desk drawer.

Price's face was warm both with drink and amusement as he read the label. "You mean after all that talk about the Motherland, we've been drinking Finlandia?" Kamarov gave him a sheepish grin and a shrug.

After they finalized the details of the next day's journey, Price wandered over to the cot. More drink and lighter conversation followed, until he eventually nodded off. Though he would remember how he felt at that point, he would never recall what else they'd talked about.

* * *

" _Price."_

_The voice is distorted, like he's deep underwater. It beckons him to the surface._

" _Time to wake up, Price."_

_The voice grows impatient. "Wake up!"_

_A cold splash. He sputters, blinking through a bright, dripping blur. A hand clamps itself around his jaw, wrenching his face toward the familiar voice. "It's about time." The hand drops away. The tall, lanky figure coming into focus is wiping his hands on a towel. Grach._

_Grach hands the towel to a nearby guard and drags a chair right up to Price. He spins it around, straddling it with two exaggerated boot-steps and sits down, smirking. "We're only just getting warmed up." He thinks for a moment. "You know, you've had it pretty good here." He sweeps an arm upward in an expansive gesture. "A room all to yourself...well, you and that rat you're feeding, anyway. In a Russian prison, that's known as luxury accommodations. In the 'Zone', you take turns sleeping, because there simply isn't enough room for all the men in that tiny cell. It's a herd of stinking, diseased, lice-ridden cattle."_

_He stands up, and begins a slow walk around Price's chair. "Do you know what a cell press is?" Price is silent. Grach squats down beside him, his voice low in Price's ear as he nods toward some of the tattooed guards. "They do." One of the men looks at Price with cold, empty eyes. "When you fuck up badly enough, the guards lock you up with a bunch of **zeks** that they have an agreement with. The men in that cell are allowed to do anything they want to you. **Anything**." Grach's voice is almost a whisper, and though Price continues to stare straight ahead, Grach leans in just enough to put a sly smile in an unavoidable corner of Price's vision. "They say it only really hurts the first time."_

_He withdraws behind Price, suddenly clapping him on both shoulders, making him jump. Grach works his thumbs in circles to massage the base of Price's neck. "Oh, don't worry," he chuckles. "That's not for you, you're a VIP." He claps his hand over Price's shoulder once more as he stands up. "Just like MacTavish. As a matter of fact, when Makarov comes and we're all together at last," he says, standing in front of Price once again. "I want you to keep one thing in mind: that everything happening to you will probably happen to him. Depending how it all works out, of course. We might have to - " his eyebrows shoot up. " – **adjust** our approach. Speaking of which, I'm rather disappointed in you, really. You're supposed to be a legend, harder than a coffin nail. But one little handshake and you pass out? **Tsk**."_

_Grach strolls by the table full of tools and medical supplies. "I'll bet you're curious about what some of these things are for," he gives Price a sideways shrug. "...Although some are rather obvious, let's face it." He reaches to straighten some items, lining them up and making sure their labels face outward. "Hmm," he says in a thoughtful pause. "As a medic, I do need to keep up on my skills." He speaks to the guards in Russian. "After all," he says with a nod to his men. "...You're going to need them." The guards close in on Price, several sets of thick arms rendering him immobile, one wrapping around his neck in a chokehold. Another rolls up Price's sleeve, then traps his elbow to forcibly keep his arm straight._

_His head firmly trapped, Price has to look out of the corners of his eyes and over the man's arm to see what Grach is doing. Grach pulls on blue disposable gloves with a snap, and selects a few items from the table. He ties a rubber tourniquet around Price's bicep. Corded veins respond, branching out along the surface of his skin. Grach's mouth turns upward, an eyebrow raised. "Well, will you look at that," he says. Choosing his target, he swabs Price's arm with an alcohol patch and looks up at him, the smile widening. "I see I have your attention now."_

_Grach turns back to the table for the moment, with sounds of tearing tape and paper, and a small plastic **pop**. "Even you know this one," he says, turning around and approaching Price with what looks like a little white dart. Grach kneels down next to him and grasps Price's elbow, pulling the skin taut. Grach pauses for a moment to look at Price, the angiocatheter hovering at a slight angle over the plump bulge of the vein. The sharp steel bevel of the inner needle glitters. Price's nostrils flare._

" _Come on, Price. You've started an IV or two in your time, haven't you? Of course you have. It's a skill every soldier needs to learn." The needle bites into him, its clear plastic hub turning ruby red. Grach advances the needle further and pulls the tourniquet loose. "But it's no good if you don't practice." He presses a fingertip on the end of the catheter to hold it in place while sliding the needle out, then secures it with tape. "There," he pronounces with satisfaction._

_Noticing that Price's breathing has quickened, Grach gives him an indignant glance. "What?" He looks back down. Blood dribbles out of the uncapped end. "Oh," he grins. "What's the matter, Price?" He tilts his head in a mocking rebuke. "You're not getting squeamish on me, are you?" He unwraps an IV lock and twists it on. He wipes away the mess with a gauze square, frowning. Blood still clogs the lock's clear plastic cap and its threads. He offers Price an apologetic look. "Okay, that was a little sloppy. But you have to admit, it was a beautiful stick." He beams. "Still got it. You're right, though – you don't need an actual IV at the moment, but I have to shoot something in there or its going to clog up and be useless."_

_Price's eyes follow Grach's every move. Grach leans over the table's assortment, fingertips drumming the surface in contemplation. "Ah," he says, tearing a syringe from its packaging and selecting one out of many vials. Price can't see the label, and it would be in Cyrillic anyway. But one thing is certain. The vial, it's glass – not a plastic throwaway. It isn't capped – it's been used before. This isn't sterile water or saline. It's a drug._

" _Whether you're a soldier, a medic...or an artist, you have to practice your craft." He pauses for a moment, hypodermic in hand, to grin at Price. "I'm a little of all of three," he says, uncapping the needle with his teeth. He spits, the plastic cap bouncing on the floor. He turns back to the vial in his hand, inverting it and holding it aloft, drawing out a measure of clear liquid. He holds the syringe up in the dim light, correcting the dose with a sparkling fountain of fine mist._

_The room echoes with the sound of Price's rapid, heavy breathing. He struggles when Grach approaches, and the guards respond by clamping down on him even harder. Price can only watch in horrified fascination as Grach swabs the lock's port and injects the drug, the needle piercing the rubber membrane with a tiny squeak. The red swirls away and disappears, leaving the lock's plastic transparent once more. "That's better," Grach declares._

_The rules are going out the window. Price breaks the silence, his voice shaking. "What's that?"_

" _Oh – so you **can** speak? Wonder of wonders." Grach stands to drop the syringe in the red plastic sharps container, then picks up a large nylon duffel bag and drops it on the floor next to the chair. He speaks to the guards in Russian and then in English, for Price's benefit. "Let him go."_

_Price looks in disbelief at his newly freed hands, up at the bemused face of the Russian medic, then back down at the IV site stuck in his arm. He reaches for it. "Ah!" Grach says in warning, wagging a finger. "You might not want to do that."_

_Price's hand drifts slowly back to its starting point, his grip tightening around the arms of the chair. He manages to steady his voice this time, his tone flat and even. "What did you just give me?"_

" _Oh," says Grach, his bored tone suggesting a minor detail that he'd neglected. "Succinylcholine."_

_In a single movement, Price launches himself at Grach with a snarl, only to fall short of his mark, staggering. Grach laughs. Price's knees buckle and the room flips sideways, both the ground and the guards rushing at him. Price makes a feeble attempt to fight them but he's lost control of his twitching body, collapsing into their arms. Their stern faces frame his view of the ceiling, which travels above him as they drag him backward, limp hands dangling, legs twisting in unnatural angles as his heels follow, until they deposit him on the cold floor. Grach's face joins the others._

" _'Sux' for short," he chuckles. "As in 'sucks to be you'."_

_**If there's a Hell, you cunt, I'll be waiting.** _

_Price gasps weakly, then not at all, his remaining breath escaping him in an uncontrolled sigh. The floor is slowly tilting toward his face. Hands grab the sides of his head, righting it, forcing him to see Grach towering over him._

_**I'm a dead man.** _

_Grach disappears from sight, with sounds of unzipping and unwrapping. "That lock needed to be flushed, and I told you I needed to work on my skills," he says. "If anything, I'm a man of efficiency. Work smarter, not harder." Sounds of clinking metal and a click._

_**Bastard whatthe ** _fuckareyoudoing whyareyoudoingthis_**** _

_Price focuses every shred of his will on something he never had to think about, to no avail. His chest remains motionless, his lungs refusing to expand. Sensing a lack of oxygen, his heart begins to pound with increasing urgency._

_Grach hovers over him once again. "That stuff works really quickly. Doesn't last that long either..." The smile disappears. "...but long enough." He pauses to glance at his watch, and then tilts his head, studying Price. "How long has it been now – thirty seconds?"_

_His heart hammers like a fist against the prison of his ribcage._

" _When you can't breathe, thirty seconds is a long time, but five minutes?" Grach raises an eyebrow, his expression cold. "An eternity."_

_Before, when they were drowning him, Price was at least still capable of drawing breath. The terror of it comes rushing back at once, engulfing him. Panic screams in his mind, yet he can't make a sound._

_**Poisonedparalyzedcan'tbreathe whykillmewhataboutMakarov comeonbreathe GodIdon'twanttodielikethis** _

" _You knew what it was as soon as I told you." The smirk creeps back into place. "That's interesting, since you don't look like an anesthetist to me." Grach casually gathers up the various wrappers he'd discarded, crumpling them into a ball. "It's kind of like that cell press – now we can do anything we want to you, and you can't do a damned thing about it."_

_His vision is blurring. Deprived of the ability to blink, Price's eyes are aching, drying out. His pulse roars in his ears, pressure and pain building in his chest._

" _But you've got even more pressing concerns now, don't you? You're about to lose consciousness. In another couple of minutes, the brain damage starts."_

_His heart pounds harder and faster each second. His thoughts are dissolving into a rolling boil of incoherent, panicked babble._

_Footsteps behind him, a rustle. His head is tilted back to see Grach kneeling behind him now, something steel flashing bright in his hand. The bastard's upside-down face looms over his. Gloved fingers press the side of his neck. "Ahh," sighs Grach, with a small smile. "Like a hummingbird."_

_Grach moves in closer. "You've got me all wrong, Price." He shrugs. "People misunderstand what I do. I'm not a sadist. I'm a seeker - I have to find a way in. Some men are more challenging than others. Yet I always find my way." He shuffles back and forth on his knees, getting comfortable._

_"Once I'm inside - the metamorphosis, the breaking down of all that he is, I've never taken that for granted. And after all this time, to be one of the few to witness Zakhaev's killers finally brought to justice? It's a privilege, really. This face? It will be one of the last you ever see." He sighs. "You'll forgive me if this seems…forward. We shared something just now, you and I. It's true, I have to save you for Makarov, yes." Grach slowly nods. "But that single defining moment when you lost your edge, when you began to...doubt..." His voice is soft, intimate. "That's all mine."_

_His lips are tingling, stars bursting in his vision._

" _Price, " The blurry face above him draws back, frowning. "You look terrible. All around your mouth there..." Grach points, his face crumpling in distaste. "It's **blue**. Guess I'd better do something."_

_With a few words in Russian from Grach, hands cradle Price's head, keeping it steady. Grach's hand cups Price's chin, opening his mouth. A flash of light blinds his staring eyes. Cold metal slides over his tongue, down his throat, pulling up – pressing against his neck from the inside. A blue-gloved fist fills his vision, gripping a thick steel handle. His mind screams against the intrusion, crying out for its immediate removal. He would fight these men with all his strength, but his hands remain at his sides, palms up in a motionless appeal._

_Grach's face is suddenly in his, almost eye-to-eye, peering down Price's throat as he manipulates the thing. "Have to be careful here, since everyone will be **so** interested in what you have to say later on," says Grach, his sour breath buffeting Price's face. A wrapper crackles. Price's mental cries double when a plastic tube pokes its way down, tickling the back of his throat. He would cough and gag, except he can't. His normal reflexes have fled._

_Full sensation remains, however - without mercy. He can do nothing, but feels everything._

_It's too much to process. The panic has reached its apex, now it's joining forces with hypoxia to trigger a final defense. Colors wash away, sounds fade. Numbness begins a slow creep. His mind is drifting, shutting down._

_A pressure deep inside his throat. The hard metal object, followed by some other rigid thing slides away, leaving something stuck in there. A blur of light, shadows hanging over him. A tightening around his face. Voices muttering. Something cold pressing against his chest as it rises with a sudden rush of air._

_Four men, dressed in Russian urban camouflage and heavy black boots, crouch over the limp body of a prisoner. Except for tinges of cyanosis matching the faded denim of his shirt, now pulled open, the prisoner's bearded face is almost as pale as the strips of tape stuck around his mouth. His gray eyes hold the fixed stare of death, but the men won't allow it. One squeezes a balloon-like rubber bag, forcing breath back into him. Another, a gangly, hawk-faced blond man, leans in especially close, a stethoscope in his ears, listening to make sure the tube has been properly placed. He smiles in self-satisfaction. It is, and the prisoner's heart is still beating, slowing down to a more normal rhythm._

_Gray mist. Gusts of wind blowing, pounding surf. Sounds of a passing storm._

_Someone is talking, from far away: "Hah, that was a good one too – practice makes perfect. So you won't have to worry. If you stop breathing, I'll be right there to do it for you. See? You're already starting to pink up."_

_Wind howling. Salty air filling his lungs. Waves breaking._

_The distant voice is growing faint. "We've played enough for now. I think I've made my point. Are you listening?" Hands turn his limp head back and forth, as if he were saying 'no'._

" _Look at me..." Someone palms the skin of his forehead, pulling his half-closed eyelids open. It doesn't matter any more. Just a grayish blur now. The voice is barely audible over the sounds of raging wind and the ocean. The waves crash relentlessly on the beach, the tide is coming in._

" _...I won't let you go that easily, Price."_

_Rubbish, blather. It makes no sense, so he ignores it. A foamy sheet of water washes over him, muffling the noise for a moment, then receding. Another stronger wave surges in behind it, enveloping him, firmly dragging him over slick sand into the surf. Yet another, pulling him all the way in, the water closing over his head, silencing the roar. Dull swishing noise that soon fades._

_He sinks further down, into gentle, silent depths._

"Price..."

_Bubbles rising. Water rushing past his ears. Not sure how deep. He feels around with his arms and legs. Nothing to grab, can't touch the bottom._

_The Russians don't notice the prisoner's wiggling fingertips and the reflexive clutching of his hands until it's too late, and each man is forced to dive for control of a flailing limb._

"Wake up."

_He blows the air out of his snorkel slowly, stretching out his arms in powerful strokes, kicking his way toward the surface. Something is wrong. His arms and legs are tangled – trapped. He struggles to free himself. If he doesn't, he'll start inhaling water._

_Bubbling sounds become babbling voices. The previous voice is back, arguing with others in some language he doesn't understand. **"** **Zatknis, bliyad!** **"** it snarls._

"Price."

_Price grunts with effort, pushing and pulling, but it's no use. Water floods his snorkel. He gags, retching, growing frantic. He fights harder._

"Price! Snap out of it!"

He sucked in a deep breath, filling his lungs at last – he was free! He exploded through the surface, his eyes flying open. He lashed out, almost falling off the cot as a figure leapt out of his reach. Price panted, shaking, his t-shirt damp with sweat, a fist still in the air. He lowered it when he recognized the owner of the voice. Kamarov's startled face came into focus.

"We've got company," said Kamarov. Price tentatively accepted the AK-47 being thrust at him, as if he didn't believe it was real.

Kamarov looked at the floor for a moment. "We thought the terrain surrounding the Northern entrance was impassible. We were wrong."

An alarm began to blare. His face burning, Price leapt up like he'd never been hurt. "Well, then what are we waiting for?" he snapped, busying himself with checking his weapon.

As he watched Price head for the door, Kamarov paused to eradicate the last trace of pity from his expression, then followed him.

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

**Amu Darya:** River in Central Asia that was once part of the Soviet border to Afghanistan

_**Dacha [**_ ** _дача]_** _:_ Vacation cottage

**Duma [** **Дума]** **:** Lower house of Russian Parliament

**_Dukhi [_** ** _Духи]_** ** _:_** Ghosts/spirits (derogatory)

_**Zatknis, bliyad [**_ ** _Заткнись,_ **_**блядь]:**_ Equiv of 'shut the fuck up', lit 'shut up, whore'

**_Zek_ _[_ _зек]_ _:_** (slang) inmate


	14. Fort Apache

Price wheezed, trying to keep up with Kamarov, his pain fading into the familiar background of fight-or-flight. Sergei, Bogdan and a couple of other Loyalists had joined them, AKs in hand. The alarm continued to blare. Red lights flashed along the ceiling, bright dots connecting the thick line of ductwork and fluorescent lighting that formed a spine for the curved steel beams of the corridor. Now, as their boots pounded the gray concrete, the wall's evenly spaced warning signs seem to flash at them with increasing urgency as they passed:

_ВНИМАНИЕ…ВНИМАНИЕ…ВНИМАНИЕ…_

When they all burst into the operations room, Price wasn't sure what was more disconcerting: the Predator feed on the video screens, or the fleeting glances he caught from a couple of the shaggy Delta operators gathered around them – just before a look from Buzz caused them to turn their backs again.

"What do we have?" said Kamarov, between breaths.

Except for a few desk lamps, the room was dark. The wash of electronic light from the screens deepened the lines and shadows of their grim faces. "Apparently that terrain isn't quite so impassible after all," said Rev.

"They're coming from out of nowhere," said Buzz. All traces of his usual humor were absent, his eyes appearing gray in the spectral glow.

Onscreen, tiny white figures continued to materialize atop the steep black hillsides surrounding the bunker's HLZ, the one that Price and Soap had arrived from. Kamarov gave him a bitter half-smile. "Why do you think we call them ghosts?"

A sudden white flash in the corner of the screens curved in a lazy spiral, growing to fill them all…

Static.

"Oh look – they have Stingers," Bogdan mumbled sarcastically.

* * *

The black cage of the lift slammed to a stop just as Price and the others reached the top of the stairs. As soon as the door banged open, a few Russians began hefting out green trunk-sized ammo crates. Everyone had divided into three teams, one for each of the bunker's entrances. Price's group was the largest. Now prepared for battle in an eclectic assortment of clothing and kit, they jogged down the angled hall toward the twin blast doors of the northern entrance. He was still winded from their dash to the ops room. Now, between their run up the steel staircase and the heavy ceramic plates in his vest, Price felt like the life would get squeezed out of him before he even made enemy contact.

He didn't have to wait long for a distraction. Angry Russian shouting filled his headset and he heard the two Loyalist heavy machine guns open up outside, sending echoes of thumping chatter rocketing through the small valley.

Leading the pack, Kamarov suddenly halted just before the open doorway, almost causing a pileup. "We've got two men down – snipers on the ridgeline!" He threw up a clenched fist. "No - Stop!" Bursts of concrete dust marched across the floor in front of them. Everyone took a step back.

"Sounds like they've got a DshK up on that ridge too, ready to cancel our asses as soon as we pop our heads out," said Hagar. "They've got us buttoned up nicely." He looked at Sergei. "You said some of their dead had NVGs yesterday?"

Sergei nodded – everyone present had a pair of night vision goggles mounted to his helmet.

"You know, they say sunlight is the best disinfectant." Hagar pulled a flash grenade from his vest. "Close enough." He lifted his chin at the sandy-haired, bearded Delta sniper next to him. "Kurt?"

"You got it, boss," Kurt said, gripping his own flashbang in a black-gloved hand.

"So it is." Kamarov spoke some quick Russian into the radio, amid nods of approval. Men crouched against the wall, checking and charging their weapons in a flurry of clicks.

"All right gentlemen," said Hagar. "On my count, we're going to throw these nine-bangers and we're all going to hit the deck outside. We'll stay to the left. Kamarov – your boys got that?"

"Affirmative."

"Just say the word."

"Do it."

Hagar's grip tightened on the flash grenade, tribal tattoos rippling on the Delta leader's muscular forearm. He hunkered down against the wall behind him, his head craned forward and rifle ready, leg muscles tensed in preparation. His eyes flickered over the group before refocusing on the door, noticing the Americans' patches. On their shoulders they wore one depicting a flaming skull with dice, crossed pistols and four aces. A small one across the back of Hagar's helmet simply said DILLIGAF.

"Three, two, flash out!" Hagar and Kurt flung them out the doors as far as they could and ducked back behind cover.

It was like the finale in a fireworks show. The concussions pounded in Price's chest; brilliant white light strobed through the open doorway, illuminating the downturned faces of the men shielding their eyes. Then he was swept up in a stampede of boots, bodies and rattling gear, outstretched hands groping blindly forward, knocking the wind out of himself when he slammed to a stop against the jagged wall of Hesco barriers and sandbags.

Everyone quickly took up positions and began to return fire. Price pulled his NVGs into place; the world turned lime green. From the jagged heights of the ridge before them, distant muzzle flashes sparkled like fireflies, rock and steel around them sparking in response. Now that they'd managed to get outside without being shot, they had to press themselves close up against the barriers to avoid the lethal barrage pouring down them from above. Something brushed past him – the limp hand of a body being carried back to the bunker, its head misshapen, a dark trail zigzagging beneath it.

Though Kamarov's face was obscured by his own goggles, Price saw him bare his teeth, his words inciting howls of righteous bloodlust from his men before he switched to English.

"Make them hurt!"

Incoming rounds snapped overhead and thudded into the barrier in front of Price, rejoined by the roar of the enemy DshK, its gunner recovered from his temporary blindness. A rifle cracked somewhere to his left, and the DshK fell silent.

"Shitload of bad guys in thermal," yelled Kurt, his thick rifle scope to his eye. "A bunch crouching behind rocks, not moving…other guys on the ridgeline covering them."

_Crack, crack –_ a second sniper rifle found more targets, men running to retake the DshK. "Oh no you don't," said Kurt's spotter, Jake.

Like everyone else, Price was forced to shout over the noise. "Kamarov – is this the first time they've stopped playing tag in favor of a full-on assault?"

Kamarov's voice was as cold and impersonal as the black lenses that stared back at Price. "It will be their last."

Ten meters from the bunker doors on either side and connected by the barrier wall stood two elevated plywood sangars, nestled back into natural crevices of the mountain face. Surrounded by sandbags, with a roof of canvas and camo netting, each housed a 12.7mm machine gun – the old DshK on the left, a Kord on the right. Both spouted brilliant blooms of deadly flame, raining spent brass and link in a growing pile.

Light streaked across the field to the far left corner, where a hulking shadow sat draped in camo netting. It erupted into a fireball; everyone ducked just in time for jagged pieces of rotor blade to scythe above their heads. The Little Bird was now engulfed in flames. "Bollocks," Price muttered. _There goes our ride._

"Contact right!" Sergei shouted, firing. "Enemies in the open!"

Price popped up over the barrier. In some places, the hillside to their right was almost a sheer drop, yet it was crawling with movement. Dark figures - a lot more than they'd thought - dashed between cover, advancing. He acquired one of them in his sights, leading him slightly, and squeezed the trigger. Gravel sprayed his face from a near miss; he ducked back down as the man fell.

"Shit - they're down in the draw!" shouted Kurt.

_Already._ Price's eyes narrowed behind his goggles; he flicked his AK's fire selector switch up to full auto. The level ground on the LZ's right side fell off into a rocky depression, which terminated in a ditch within 25 meters of the Kord - good for both cover and advancement. And the men whom Buzz had so dismissively referred to as 'the Flintstones' now had them outnumbered by at least three to one.

"They know what they're doing," said Price, his voice low. His rifle tight in his shoulder, he concentrated on controlling his breathing while he scanned for targets at the edge of the ditch.

"Kurt, Jake – we'll worry about them. I need eyes on that ridgeline," said Hagar.

"Copy that," said Jake. In his next breath he dropped the sniper that had almost shot Price.

_This could go tits-up in a hurry._ "Air support?"

"ETA twenty minutes," said Kamarov.

The Soviet-era bunker appeared well kept. Price hoped it wasn't just cosmetic. "Are those blast doors original?" Though Price kept his eyes down his sights, he felt the robotic stare trained on him once again.

Kamarov's tone and slow, deliberate words indicated that he didn't appreciate what Price was implying. "They were replaced." Scattered bursts of gunfire punctuated his momentary silence. "I'll be damned before I let this scum chase us underground," he said. "We taught them a few lessons before, and what we have here are a lot of slow learners. By the time the gunships arrive, there will be nothing left for them." He spoke some Russian into the radio, possibly a translation – it resulted in more bloodthirsty shouts from the Loyalists.

Tangos burst from their hiding places and hopped down the slope to join the others. Price marveled at their agility _. Like bloody mountain goats, they are._ A few went limp and tumbled down the rest of the way, followed a split second later by the sound of the Delta snipers' shots. Then he saw what he'd been waiting for: a head popped up. The man flew backward, his rifle firing wildly into the air. _Gotcha_.

Price's jaw dropped; enemy fighters were swarming out of the draw.

"Light 'em the fuck up!" Hagar bellowed.

Red tracers streaked like lasers across the field. Between the echoed crack of small arms fire and the mechanical rattle of the heavy guns, Price heard the faster bursts of light machine guns, including Delta's SAW gunner, 'Mailman' Mike.

_BRRT…BRRRT…BRRRRT._ The onrushing horde writhed in a gruesome dance, their bodies literally torn apart in the fusillade, yet still more came.

In his entire career Price had never seen anything like it. Terrible understanding rippled through him. This was what had sent the Soviets – and the British – packing. _Straight out of fucking Kipling. We have the watches, but they have the time._

Kamarov's shouting filled the radio in a heated Russian exchange, the other man's tone growing desperate. The heavy machine gun fire was now one continuous, jangling roar.

An RPG _whooshed_ past them, blowing the Loyalist DshK and its gunners out of the sangar. The body of a nearby Delta operator hurtled through the air, landing in a heap. Price and the others were showered with hot shrapnel and gore.

" _Suki_!" Sergei screamed. Bogdan's GP-30 spat out a 40mm grenade and returned the favor.

Kurt scrambled to reach the American lying facedown in the dirt. The man's tattered desert camo fatigues were stained with blood, arms and legs splayed out in the unnatural sprawl of sudden unconsciousness. "Jake? We've got an eagle down!" He reached out to jostle him; Jake's helmeted head wobbled, but that was all. "Jake – come on!" He looked up, his shout faltering when he saw Delta's medic already at his side. "Terry - "

Laying a hand on Kurt's shoulder, Terry dropped his pack. "Careful!" He leaned over Jake, checking his pulse and breathing, and looked back up at Kurt. "We need a backboard!" Their yelling could barely be heard over the nonstop noise of the remaining machine gun.

Enemy dead and wounded littered the field. But for every one that fell, another took his place. They continued to rush the Kord's position, leaping over the torn bodies of their comrades.

The Kord's barrel began to glow a faint red in the dark.

"We're gonna get overrun!" Hagar reared back and threw a frag. "Keep those fuckers away from that gun before they turn it on us! Mustang two-one – how about that air support, over?"

Buzz's terse voice came back over the radio. "Working on it. Out."

For the first time, Price noticed how cold it was outside in the dead of night. _Working on it? What the fuck happened to twenty minutes?_

They were close enough now that Price could hear their cries when the grenade found its mark. Underslung grenade launchers - Delta's GLMs and the Russian GP-30s - sent out an even greater explosive welcome, shredding still more enemy fighters to pieces. He was able to get a good look at them now. These were young dark-haired, bearded men in baggy dark clothing with turbans and pakols to match. Some had camouflage jackets, most had chest rigs.

Past the bright white flame pouring out the front of the sangar, Price could make out the green figure of the Kord's assistant gunner, who sprayed his PKP's fire back and forth at the ditch while shouting into his headset, his mic keyed on. The man's voice was frantic. The PKP gobbled up its ammo belt and stopped. The man dropped it, drew his pistol and kept firing. His body twitched spasmodically in several directions and collapsed.

The Kord clunked to a halt.

There was a heartbeat of silence before the screaming started. It stopped just as abruptly.

"Get on that gun – _davai, davai_!" Kamarov shouted. His men raced to regain control of the abandoned Kord as emboldened hostiles flooded forward. Price spat out a grenade's pin. "Frag out!" Limbs flew in a dark whirlwind.

A Loyalist, Andrei, leapt into the sangar and grabbed the gun. He popped its top open to clear the malfunction while Price and the others continued to lay down a wall of suppressing fire.

Something struck Price's helmet, driving him to his knees. Blinking, he tried to shake off the dizziness, his vision hampered by the green tunnel of his NVGs as his eyes darted in search of the object, which bounced and rolled in front of him.

Something dark…oval.

" _Granata!_ Price!" Sergei hit the ground behind him.

Time slowed down as Price dove forward to grab it. He felt it ticking in his hand. The faster he tried to move, the slower he seemed to go, and though he flung it with all the force he could muster, it took forever to leave the end of his arm. Incredulous, he watched it hurtle lazily over the barriers until someone shoved him from behind. He tasted dirt.

With a blinding _THUD_ , a wall of dust blasted out of the Hescos.

Time was speeding back up again. He coughed and sputtered, each spasm bringing a stabbing pain in his side. A face coalesced in the green blur - Sergei's. Lips formed exaggerated words: Get. Up.

Frowning, Price gave a curt nod, turned his head and spat. His breath left him in a _woof,_ thanks to an affectionate cuff on the back from Bogdan, who hauled him up by his vest. " _Davai, starik."_

Sergei's manic expression melted away. Price brought his rifle up with a snarl. The machine gun was manned once again - by the enemy.

The black-clad stranger's face lit up as he swung the Kord in their direction. He could now mow them all down with ridiculous ease. He propped one off-brand hi top on the body lying beneath him – Andrei's. Blood dripped from the edge of the wooden platform.

The end of a thin black line stood between Price's eye and the grinning face. Two AKs barked. Hot steel stung his cheek and bounced off the side of his helmet. The man toppled forward, half his head gone. His body draped over the gun for a few seconds before spilling out of the sangar to the ground. The Kord's barrel drooped, as if in disappointment.

Price allowed himself to breathe again. Acrid smoke curled into his face from the AK's open breech; it had been his last shot.

Sergei looked at him in disbelief. "Did you get him or did I?"

"Changing!" Price tilted a fresh magazine into place and yanked the AK's charging handle. "As long as that arsehole's been slotted, makes no diff - " He paused midsentence, surprised that he had a chance to form one. "You hear that?"

Beside him, Bogdan backed away from the barrier, apparently sharing Price's unease at the lull in the gunfire. His rifle at low ready, he stepped toward the small crowd of Loyalists defending the sangar.

Something flashed in Price's peripheral vision. "RPG!" He was already halfway to the ground when the explosion's heat and pressure rolled over him. Soil and debris rained down, forcing him to retreat back to the shelter of his folded arms a split second after he'd begun to lift his head.

The Kord, along with most of the sangar, was gone. Flames leapt up the splintered wood. Dazed men crawled along the ground; others lay unmoving.

"Fuuuuck! Fuck!" One of the Americans clawed at his face and flung away a piece of smoking metal, shaking his hand, his glove smoldering. Seeing a fallen Delta man, he rushed to his side. "Rerun – y'all right?"

Rerun struggled to sit up, the dark stubble of his face streaked with blood and dirt. "Goddamn it, Mike," he grunted. "We're getting chewed up out here."

Price slid a hand backward through the rubble, levering himself up with a grimace. Bogdan lay next to him, curled up on his side.

"Bodya!" Sergei was there in two pounding steps, easing him over onto his back. Bodgan's eyes were clamped shut, lips pressed together in a tight line, some of his groans escaping between shallow gasps. He was peppered with blast injuries, his ragged clothing spotted with blood. One arm was wrapped protectively around himself, just below the edge of his vest; a dark stain was spreading across the front of his shirt beneath. Sergei pried his arm out of the way. Bogdan's fingers trembled around a shard of lumber protruding from his abdomen.

Price slung his rifle behind him and moved to help, but Kamarov had already taken hold of Bogdan's opposite shoulder. "Get his legs," he said.

When Price crouched in front of him, Bogdan stiffened, his face contorted with rage. He snatched up his AK and swung it one-handed toward Price.

Price shrank away from the muzzle flashes blazing past his shoulder and whirled around to see another man in black fall, his rifle tumbling out of his hands. Bracing himself against the Hescos, he brought his own AK up and fired. One threat was gone, and three more were climbing over the ruins of the sangar.

One had an RPG over his shoulder. He was close enough for Price to see his finger jerk the trigger before he pitched forward. Close enough to see the button-like tip of the warhead flying directly at them.

A whispered "No!" was the last thing Price thought he'd ever say. But the rocket malfunctioned, veering off course. With a flash of searing heat, it corkscrewed over their heads to impact harmlessly against the mountainside, sending a shower of rocks across the bunker entrance. His nose wrinkled at the smell of burning hair – his own.

He turned back to see the man's body hanging headfirst over the barrier, propped up by the empty RPG tube like a human sign pointing to chaos. The air was thick with smoke, accompanied by an orchestra of gunfire, yelling in several languages, and screams of pain. Injured men were all around him, some being dragged to safety, while others staggered back under their own power. Those still fit to do so opened fire on a fresh wave of enemies.

"It's like a goddamned clown car! How fuckin' many of them are there?" Mike's SAW felled half a dozen, creating a tangle of bodies.

"We're not going to last much longer out here," said Hagar, dropping several others with bursts from his HK416.

Price's AK added more bodies to the pile. "Let it go, Kamarov." What a load of bollocks that must have sounded like, coming from him. The black tubes of Kamarov's NVGs regarded him again – it seemed to agree, and begged a silent question: _can you?_

Sergei's goggled, helmeted attention swiveled between Price and his commanding officer, then back down to the wounded friend lying in his arms.

Kamarov's mouth twisted in some inner struggle, until he turned back to his men. "Fall back to the bunker!" He twirled a hand in a circular gesture. "Fall back!"

"Thought you'd never ask. Popping smoke." Kurt tossed the hissing canister toward the sangar, leaving a plume of red smoke in its wake. He took a knee to steady himself and brought his rifle to his shoulder, ready to take full advantage of his thermal sight. He fired twice, three times.

Bogdan clutched at the impaled object in his belly, pedaling on unsteady legs as Kamarov and Sergei dragged him backwards. He continued to fire one-handed bursts until his AK clicked empty and he sagged into their arms, his rifle clattering to the ground. Another Loyalist ran to pick up his feet, and all three rushed him inside.

More rockets shot through the smoke but didn't hit anything; they had been fired blindly. Kurt sent a few rounds back at them – not as blindly. No one else could see them fall, but they could hear their screams.

"Let's go, let's go!" Hagar waved at the men who had paused to fire while others continued to retreat.

A buzzer sounded behind Price, followed by a hydraulic hiss. Light flashed on the ground around him; shadows leapt and shrank. It was the rotating ceiling light just inside the entrance - the blast doors were closing.

Kurt swung his rifle up and ran for the doors. Mike's SAW covered them with a burst as the rest of the wounded were taken inside, then he followed.

Price threw another grenade. The explosion looked like lightning in the clouds, briefly exposing shadowy outlines of men in the smoke.

Kamarov was somewhere behind him, screaming his name. "Price! Come on!"

He looked up to see a man crouched atop a Hesco, towering over him. A fold of his black turban was wrapped around his nose and mouth, exposing only the set of fierce dark eyes that stared down at Price over the barrel of an AK-47.

"Price!"

A hole appeared between the two eyes, then a trickle of blood. The dead man's blank face loomed in his as Price was yanked backward and ushered through the narrow opening between the doors. Kurt stepped out of his way, his smoking rifle in his hands.

Kamarov was right behind him, squeezing his bulk sideways to get in. Price flipped up his NVGs, returning to a world of full color. Now that everyone had raced inside, the huge red steel and concrete doors were closing with agonizing slowness. That, the rotating red light overhead and the yellow-and-black hazard stripes framing the doorway gave Price a sense of _déjà vu._ He remembered Gaz's words to him about a very similar set of blast doors, the cockney accent clear in his head: _You can pull on them, sir, if it makes you feel better._

This was a hell of a time for a stroll down memory lane. Price almost smiled – even in death, Gaz was still being a cheeky bastard.

The space between the doors was no longer wide enough to admit a man. Kamarov stood in the doorway, sending 7.62 rounds and Russian obscenities through the shrinking gap, bullet strikes sparking around him. Empty casings rolled and bounced at his feet. The wide-eyed phalanx behind him lowered their weapons, barely able to catch a glimpse of the gathering enemy presence outside, much less do anything about it.

A bullet snapped past Price's head; concrete chips stung his face. Kamarov jerked backward as if being driven by an invisible hammer, his arms flying up. Another unseen blow spun him violently around, his face frozen in silent agony. He crumpled, and as Price leapt forward to catch him, the others were peeling away in a dead run. Kamarov's falling body revealed a man outside with an RPG.

A bright flash, heat and deafness; tiny red-hot needles. The floor slammed into him.

The red light went out. The bunker's audible alarms had been silenced, and the noise coming from outside – the rattle of AKs being fired into the air, the victorious shouts of their enemies - was cut off when the two doors finally met.

BOOM.

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

_**ВНИМАНИЕ (vnee-MAN-ya)** \- ATTENTION_

**__Davaĭ__** _ _**[**__ ** _Давай]_** _ **–**_ let's go/come on

**DILLIGAF –** Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck

**Hesco –** Name of the manufacturer, Hesco Bastion, and synonymous with its product, the Hesco concertainer. A folding wire mesh cube lined with plastic fabric that is filled with dirt and used to stop things like flood waters – and bullets.

_**Suki**_ **_[_** _ **суки]**_ **–** bitches

_**Starik [**_ ** _старик]_** _ **–**_ old man

The inspiration for Delta's shoulder patch is the 'Dealer of Death' helmet sticker from the Australian biker site Bikerbits.

Price's Kipling reference is to the poem _The Young British Soldier._ Most Americans, including myself until recently, have never heard of it. Then again, before CoD4 most of us never heard of the SAS. ;-)


	15. Operation Icarus

The silence, and the ringing in Price's ears, was deafening.

A few smoking shards of metal lay scattered on the floor around him. Most were embedded in the pockmarked wall and ceiling. The wisps of smoke fed the hazy layers floating in the sickly fluorescent lighting. One fixture had been knocked from its mooring and hung, still lit, by its wires, swinging in a slow twisting arc.

Crunching through debris, Price rolled over to see Kamarov lying beside him, unconscious, his face mottled red and black – blood and carbon. He pushed himself up off the floor as several sets of boots came pounding over. "Kamarov," he whispered.

A drop of blood swelled around the edge of one nostril and broke, painting a red streak, as Price peeled off a glove to check for a pulse. "Kamarov…Anton?"

Men dropped to their knees beside him while others gathered around, and everyone began to talk at once.

Price, joined by one of the Loyalists, began to pat him down for injuries. Kamarov's gray eyes blinked open, widening in surprise at the crowd of faces before focusing on Price. He drew in a deep breath and gasped, wincing.

"Where are you hit?" Price asked.

Kamarov clutched at his side. "Took a couple in the vest," he grunted. One of his men shouted for a medic. " _Nyet,_ " said Kamarov, waving them away. " _Ya v poryadke."_ He pushed himself up onto his elbows with a groan. "It's nothing." They appeared unconvinced as he slowly, painfully reached into his jacket - Price expected bloodstained fingers to emerge - and brought out his flask for a drink. They backed off, sighing.

Price chuckled to himself, shaking his head, partly to refuse the offer that followed. This was more like the man he remembered.

Kamarov sniffled, wiping the blood off his face. "They're going to have to do better than that."

_Thud._ All eyes fell on the doors.

"They are persistent," said one of the Russians.

"If that hadn't hit the edge of the door, or if that had been a HEAT round…well, you'd be in no shape to hold a conversation, that's for sure," said Rerun.

"We'd no longer have a shape," said Price. His thoughts strayed to what the armor piercing shaped charge and delayed secondary explosion would've done to them _. "_ Only standard rounds so far. Even so, we need to clear away from the doors." The Americans agreed, glancing at the Loyalists keeping watch on the entrance; they seemed eager to rejoin the men gathered down the corridor. Price heard moaning, and assertive responses tempered with reassuring tones. The wounded were back there.

Kamarov watched them disappear around the curve, designed to protect against a blast wave if the doors were breached. "I've sent someone to check on MacTavish," he said, fixing Price with a piercing gaze, as if trying to drill the meaning into him. His voice softened. "The sooner, the better, my friend."

It worked. Price was aware of the cold once again, felt the prickle of gooseflesh. He nodded slowly, and when he extended his hand to Kamarov, it wasn't just to help him up.

* * *

The hallway was scattered with wounded, some lying down, others sitting propped up against the walls, cradling hastily-dressed injuries. A few men were making the rounds among them, while most were gathered in two small crowds: one around Jake and one around Bogdan.

Bogdan was stretched out on the gray concrete, his head pillowed on Sergei's folded jacket. He was conscious but barely holding on, his eyes almost closed. Despite the cool air, sweat shone on his pale forehead. Thick dressings, stained with blood, were packed and tied around the impaled object in his belly to stabilize it. Sergei held the rapidly dripping IV bag aloft while a Russian medic bandaged another one of Bogdan's many shrapnel wounds. Kamarov and Price crouched down next to him.

"How's he holding up?" Price asked.

"Better, after some morphine," said Sergei. The concern on his face was immediately replaced by a smirk when he turned back to the big man lying in front of him. "Leaving me with all the work, as always."

Price followed his lead with a disapproving tone. " _Some_? Looks like he's had a bit more than that."

" _Yob t'voyu mat_. Get this fucking thing out of me…" Bogdan whispered.

Kamarov patted him on the arm. " _V blizhaysheye vremya, brat_."

The lift banged to a stop behind them. Sergei glanced over his shoulder. "There they are now. We're going to get you downstairs."

The door slid open and two trolleys emerged, while more men poured out of the stairwell to join them, jamming the already crowded corridor. Buzz and Rev were among them, grim-faced as they surveyed the scene.

The newcomers surrounded Bogdan. Though there were plenty available for the job, Price, Sergei and Kamarov helped lift and secure him onto the trolley. A few feet away, a similar group were carefully hoisting up the backboard that Jake was strapped to. Their terse voices and intense expressions – Kurt's especially - had already told Price that the Delta operator was gravely injured. Now he was able to see it for himself. Jake was unresponsive, his waxen, badly swollen face almost matching the color of the plastic cervical collar around his neck.

The Delta medic, Terry, carefully arranged the tubing and laid the IV bag on Jake's chest. "All right, let's go. Kamarov…once the external security situation is stabilized, we can evac them both, along with some of your more seriously wounded. You guys aren't equipped to handle all the casualties," he said, as the trolley began to move.

"Agreed," Kamarov nodded.

With a lift of his singed eyebrows, Price held out a hand in farewell. "See that, mate? Now you get to spend more quality time with your favorite people."

Bogdan clasped it. The strips of white tape and clear tubing looked stark and clinical against his dirty forearm. His unfocused, wandering gaze finally landed on Price. "Don't remind me…Price…" He swallowed, closing his eyes. "…you prick."

Price smiled. "Get better."

Bogdan summoned the energy to shoot him a sharp look. "Watch your back, Price." His eyelids drooped again. "And kill all those fuckers for me," he mumbled.

"Planning on it, although it would be rude of me not to save you a couple."

Bogdan cracked a sleepy grin as he was wheeled into the lift.

"That might be a while," said Buzz.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Hagar snarled. "What about our air?"

"We got cut off right in the middle of calling it. Anything outside with a dish or antenna, they've found it." The group's mood darkened even further, with shifting and rumbling. Sergei, who stood just inside the lift with Bogdan, backed out just as the doors closed. "Just as we feared," Buzz gave him a nod of acknowledgement. "They were leading us on. Among the not-ready-for-primetime players is some real leadership, probably guys who've fought the Russians before. They've taken out our drone, our comms and they've got every entrance covered, though most are at the back door here – the one we thought we could leave open."

Kamarov began to instruct his men in Russian. A group of them headed for the blast doors. "Now…everyone else who can still fight – top of the stairwell."

"So apart from the obvious, what do you have in mind?" Buzz asked.

"We have a few hidden entrances. Should buy you the time you need to reestablish contact," said Kamarov.

"They haven't found all the cameras yet," said Rev. "Let's hope they stay long enough for the fireworks."

"I have a feeling they're not going anywhere," said Price. "What's the ventilation system like in here?"

A momentary hush fell over the group. "Multiple exhaust fans and intake points - " Kamarov began, but the question had already spurred everyone into action, including him. "Basic filtration only."

"Rerun, Mike, Atticus – with me. We're going to grab some ammo, we'll meet the rest of you up there," said Hagar.

Men began funneling up the stairs. One of the Deltas paused – a man with a neck as thick as his head and bushy, almost contiguous eyebrows. His callsign was Chuckles, but his expression couldn't be more humorless.

"Price…you coming?"

* * *

With cautious, painful effort while sitting on the bedside, Soap had just managed to ease his trousers over his hips when the Afghan-looking man strolled into the room, Misha right behind him. He looked down at Soap and pulled a face, surprising him with a posh London accent. "Christ. He's never going to make it, not like this."

Angry heat flooded MacTavish's face and neck. Along with the truth in that statement and what it meant for both him and Price, he hated _that_ , knowing others could read him like a book, as his mother had frequently reminded him when he was growing up.

"Misha, better give big lad one for the road, eh?"

Misha's look of appraisal was one that Soap had grown to dislike. The medic pursed his lips and sighed before returning his attention to the canvas bag he'd dropped on the bedside table. He rummaged through it, mumbling under his breath and turned back to Soap, a plastic bottle of pills rattling in his hand. "Be sure to finish _all_ of these -" he gave the bottle a shake "- and remember what I told you about the sutures. Remind Price about his." He shook his head and tossed it back into the bag. "Maybe he'll listen to you."

Eyeing the bag, MacTavish didn't reply.

Misha _humphed_ at him on his way out. "Probably not."

"Come on, step it up sweetheart, meter's running."

MacTavish slowly stood to tower over the man, their faces separated by inches. Though his posture conveyed the message he wanted, his slow rise from the bed hadn't been for the intimidation factor. His wounds had been aggravated by all the unfamiliar activity, and the flaring pain was doing nothing for his mood. Though he was no stranger to the small hours, his awakening had been a rude one, to say the least.

He hoped his trembling wasn't visible; jangling nerves and the fuzzy remnants of last night's painkillers competed in a mildly nauseating battle for his awareness. He didn't need any reminders from this muppet about hurrying, he'd already heard enough from the Russians. The alarms and intercom announcements had signaled his hasty release from the infirmary, which now hummed with activity. Medics in plastic aprons rushed about with armloads of supplies, preparing to take fresh casualties. They'd sat him up, checked his dressings, pulled his IV site, tossed a set of clothes in his direction and introduced him to his escort, whom he currently felt like flattening.

And shite…after all the trouble of standing up, he hadn't yet gotten his boots on.

"And just who the bloody hell are you?" he growled.

Mr. London Accent held up his hands, taking a step back. "All right, take it easy." His strange green eyes bore into MacTavish's with sudden sincerity. "Name's Armaan. Proof that you two still have friends in low places."

Soap was unmoved. "Is that right?"

Armaan lowered his voice to a hiss. "Listen, mate - you can stay here if you like, but with all the shit lists you're on right now, I wouldn't recommend it. Before long, Yanks'll have both a cas-evac _and_ a QRF here, and if you thought things were getting cozy before…"

Both men paused at the sudden stream of Russian cursing from Nikolai, and Sasha's attempts to calm him down and keep him from flying out of bed in a rage.

This was enough to break Soap's cold stare. "Oi - what's the matter with him?"

Nikolai's face was bright red. "Those _khui_ just blew up my chopper!"

"For fuck's sake." Soap groaned. "Although knowing you there's three more in the garage."

"Not in _this_ fucking garage!"

_Yet another sodding thing we don't need right now._ He glanced at the long sleeved, blue-and-white striped _telnyashka_ still sitting on the bed – something else he should have put on first. _Fuck me._ _Yet more evidence of how quickly I need to sort myself out._ With a curl of his lip and a long, exasperated exhale through his nose, MacTavish hiked up the unbuttoned khaki combat trousers.

"Hold on, I wouldn't do that just yet," said Armaan, as Misha reappeared with something in his hand. Soap heard the tap of a glass vial being placed on the table, then the medic dug into the pocket of his white lab coat for a couple more items – Soap couldn't see what. "Desperate times…desperate measures," said Armaan, slinging the canvas bag over his shoulder.

Soap's stitched eyebrow shot up and he winced, his scowl deepening. He didn't like the look that had just passed between the two, or the smirk creeping across Nikolai's face. "What are you on about?" he demanded.

"You look like you could do with a pick-me-up, so I've got some good news," said Armaan. He paused in the doorway, not quite smiling. "In a moment, I'll no longer be the biggest pain in your arse."

* * *

With a click, a gloomy cone of light spilled into the small room, but not before Hagar almost tripped over one of the many boxes of ammunition stored there for the Americans' use - the Russians didn't shoot anything that ate 5.56. This minor inconvenience would work in his favor for once.

He stole a glance at Mike and Rerun as the duo stooped over a wooden crate. The dressing taped over Mike's cheek looked like it was already about to fall off, but it would have to do for now. In most ways, the two couldn't be more different. Mike was big, blond, loud and red-faced, a Nebraskan with Scandinavian roots like Hagar's. He'd been a Boy Scout and a high school football star - when he wasn't helping little old ladies cross the street, he'd been stuffing smaller guys into lockers. He'd joined the military right out of school, in keeping with the family tradition and for a ticket out of the cornfield. Rerun, on the other hand, was compact, dark-haired and olive-skinned. An escapee from some inner-city shithole, his ability to fly under the radar had served him well in life. He'd earned his nickname from a particularly drunken episode involving dancing, one they'd never let him live down, even though the kid was too young to get the reference.

While this was anything but a bullshit errand, Hagar was sure they both knew damn well why he and his second-in-command, Atticus, had pulled them aside. At least they had the decency to start off with some small talk.

Rerun was typically soft-spoken. "Goddamn…did you see that fuckin' RPG hit the mountainside? Not to mention the door."

"That's what they get for buying 'em from the Chinese," said Mike, flicking open his knife.

"That's not what I meant. Price almost bit it back there – a couple of times."

"Now that _would_ be a damn shame, wouldn't it?" The first band snapped off, Mike began sawing away at the second. "Shit happens, you know…" It broke and he shrugged. "…in the fog of war and all."

Turning his attention from his own crate, Hagar straightened to face them, his emphasis on the first word edged with authority. " _Just_ so we're clear. "I know y'all have some mixed feelings about this one."

"We all do," said Atticus, with a slight Southern drawl. It was his real name, bestowed upon him by bookish parents back in the days - as Hagar put it - 'before all the hipster pukes started doing it'. He was only in his early thirties, but the shoulder-length dark brown hair twisted into a knot at the base of his neck was going prematurely gray. A rumpled brow overshadowed the pale blue-green eyes set deep in his bearded face. "We didn't exactly sign up for this little venture to start going after Brits. Especially ones that some of us trained with."

Mike folded the knife, stuffing it back into its sheath more forcefully than necessary. "What about Vinson – have you forgotten about him already?"

The open accusation didn't bother Hagar nearly as much as the silent one in Rerun's dark eyes. "We don't know that they're the ones responsible."

"They were there, weren't they? Took on Hotel Bravo by themselves – I'd call that two very motivated individuals."

Rerun shook his head slowly, looking at the floor. "Shepherd was a good guy. A little misunderstood, maybe."

"And trust me - they're going to answer for it," said Hagar. "At the moment, we have a few _other_ motivated individuals to deal with."

"Primary mission still comes first," said Atticus, with a nod to indicate their surroundings. "Remember whose house we're in."

"So after we're done mopping up these motherfuckers," Mike jerked a thumb at the ceiling. "Then we just –" He looked at his upraised hand, smirked and gave a sarcastic shrug. " - sit here with our thumbs up our asses and continue to make nice?"

"That's exactly what we're going to do - for now. Once they're feeling their oats, they'll make a run for it. That's when we get 'em," said Hagar.

"Their pilot's grounded, and MacTavish is still out of commission. We've got some time," said Atticus.

Mike sighed. "I hope you're right. Even once he's ambulatory, he won't be back to 100 percent for a while. But the old man? He might be looking a little worse for wear right now, but from what I hear, that little dude is trouble on a stick."

Rerun shared his friend's concern. "Word is, he was a guest of the Inner Circle for months. Seems they showed him some real Spetsnaz-style hospitality. Do you honestly think he'll let himself be taken alive again?"

"But hey - it's us, right? What's a little bagging and tagging among friends?"

Even Atticus was starting to lose his patience. "Jesus, Mike. You're starting to sound like that asshole from _Aliens._ "

In better circumstances, Hagar might have laughed. "The Agency wants 'em alive."

"That's all well and good. However – if they put up a fight, it's officially still a two-way order, is it not?" Mike gave him a sideways look. "… _If_ it comes down to that."

Hagar was fresh out of time for this shit – this recent insistence on butting heads with him was getting old. _Vinson was cashiered out, PNG'ed. Keep it up and you'll join him._ He locked eyes with Mike. "So let's just hope it doesn't."

"Since I personally know three little kids that will now grow up without a father," The heavy green steel US-issue ammo boxes marked _4 BALL 1 TRACER M27 LINK_ clunked as Mike stood up with them. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't hope too hard."

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

**HEAT –** High Explosive Anti-Tank; a 'bunker buster'.

_**Khui** **[хуи́]** \- _dicks

_**Nyet, ya v poryadke [**_ ** _нет, я в порядке]_** _–_ No, I'm all right.

**PNG –** _Persona non grata,_ an unwelcome person; to be PNG'ed is to be ostracized.

**QRF** – Quick Reaction Force

**_V blizhaysheye vremya, brat_ ** _**[** _ **_в ближайшее время, брат] -_ ** _Soon, brother._

_**Yob t'voyu mat [**_ ** _ёб твою́ мать]_** _–_ 'Fuck off' or more literally 'go back into your mother'.

_**Aliens** _ _is the property of Twentieth-Century Fox._

_* 'that little dude is trouble on a stick' is from_ _**Wolverine** _ _**#92** _ _(1995) by Larry Hama. That line has been stuck in my head for over 17 years! As a couple of you already know, my Price characterization was somewhat inspired by Logan, and since the late John McAleese described himself as a 'short-arse', that's how I think of Price. I couldn't resist._

* * *


	16. Magistral

The man carrying the tire never knew what hit him. The man with the Molotov cocktail, he knew. But he was too distracted by the flames leaping up the long shirttail of his _shalwar_.

When they'd spotted Tire Man from their rocky perch, angry sighs had drifted through the well-armed group lying flattened in the contours of otherwise exposed ground.

A tire - Price's previous concerns realized. In this case, the sum of their fears.

They'd heard him before seeing him. Their attackers had chosen their timing carefully. The night was nearly pitch black, with only a sullen orange sliver of moon. That choice had begun to work out even more in their enemies' favor when puffy clouds scudded across the sky, blotting out the stars. Without much light to gather, their night vision goggles gave them little advantage over the man, who wore none.

After letting him pass, Price, Sergei and a few others had climbed down as slowly and quietly as possible, careful not to profile themselves against the night sky. Price's foot had slipped – he'd silently mouthed a curse, freezing on the spot. The trickle of gravel had sounded like an avalanche in his electronic headset, designed to muffle loud noises while amplifying ambient sounds.

Tire Man hadn't heard a thing, and had continued on his way as the darkness shifted behind him.

Readily available just about anywhere, nothing burns like a tire. Fast and hot, with dense smoke. For that very reason, used all over the World for things like signal fires, roadblocks … and much worse.

The soft rolling crunch of their footfalls had sounded thunderous in an otherwise eerie silence. In night vision, the sheer cliffs seemed to close in around them, looming over an alien landscape rendered in lime green static and deep shadow. Price had felt a fluttering breeze and recoiled as a squeaking bat flitted past him, another creature on the hunt.

They crept along behind Tire Man until he reached his destination: a cluster of boulders tucked into the hillside, above the level of their heads, where a few of his fellows awaited him. Tires had been piled over the rocks – Sergei's sudden grip on his shoulder and pointing had told Price that this was one of the bunker's concealed air intake vents. He'd wondered if its inhabitants already smelled rubber, as he could. That, and petrol; with some effort, Tire Man had hurled his atop the pile while one of his mates had been busy stuffing a rag into a bottle.

Crude, and terribly effective. The fire would quickly become unapproachable — unstoppable. Stealing oxygen while pouring thick black smoke into the bunker's air system. A blinding, highly toxic curtain would descend over the men below them, including MacTavish, Nikolai, and the critically wounded that now lay in the infirmary. Those who were able would be forced to flee the bunker or be rapidly overcome, and once they made it out, an ambush awaited them.

Price had to remind himself to focus on Hagar's flurry of handsignals, and not the bright spark that leapt with each abortive flick of the cigarette lighter. His breath had caught as he'd watched the flames leap onto the rag, his finger already pulling slack out of his rifle's trigger.

With a sudden burst of suppressed cracks, the black-clad militiamen's limp bodies had slumped to the ground. Good kills – except for the wounded Molotov man, who had dropped his newly-lit bottle, turning himself into a human torch. Price's next bullet dropped him as well, but not in time to prevent the man's shrill screams.

Everyone tensed, guns trained down the slope in all directions, waiting for shouts and gunfire to erupt.

" _Shit_ ," Hagar hissed. "Why don't we just take out a friggin' ad? Put that out." Some pulled security while others rushed to the scattered corpses, rifles ready for anyone not quite dead. Sergei ran up to the man's burning body, and with a shrug, began to extinguish the flames by stomping on him. There was no reaction.

"Stop, drop and roll, motherfucker," one of the Americans murmured.

Like everyone else's, Rerun's voice was a whisper. "So much for keeping this quiet."

Hagar keyed his radio. "Markhor Five, this is Markhor Six - give me a sitrep, over."

"Things are about to get hot over here, in more ways than one," Atticus replied, from where his team lay concealed near the other main air vent.

"You too, huh?"

"Caught a posse of bad guys trying to smoke us out. Smoked them instead. Area around the entrance is crawling with hostiles, and pretty soon they're going to start wondering why there's no bonfire. Any luck with the TOC?"

"Affirmative. They're on their way. Until then, we stick to the plan."

"Solid copy."

"Six out."

Kamarov's voice came over the radio next, reinforcing the information in Russian.

"Now we just make like the Bee Gees and stay alive for the next half hour," Mike muttered.

* * *

After stashing the bodies, Hagar's team spread back out to their original positions, tucked into the mountainside. Catching sight of Price, Mike stiffened. He exchanged a long look with Rerun, who clapped him on the arm as he left. Cradling his SAW, Mike watched Price and Sergei clamber back up the rocky slope.

He jumped at the hand on his shoulder. Chuckles's gravelly voice rumbled in his ear. "I know what you're thinking, man … and you need to _stop_ thinking it."

Mike didn't turn around. "Like I'm the only one?" He kept his goggles trained on the smaller of the fuzzy green figures, until they were swallowed by the night. "What's left of Vinson could fit in a shoebox."

"Then you – _plural_ – need to stop thinking it." Chuckles's reply was curt and matter-of-fact as they returned to watching their sectors. "Charlie Mike."

* * *

No matter how many times he had performed this task, Kamarov still marveled at how death seemed to add extra weight to a human body. On the count of three, he and Atticus watched it roll into the ravine.

"This must bring back some memories," said Atticus, his voice barely audible as they began the climb back up to the ridge overlooking the trail.

"Too many, and few of them pleasant," said Kamarov. Retreat wasn't an option, yet neither was going on the offensive. They had to stop any further attempts at sabotage or breaching, yet they needed to avoid contact as much as possible. They could safely assume they were still outnumbered, and now without overhead thermal imaging, they had no idea how badly.

He grimaced. The sparse vegetation and open spaces were deceiving. With steep drop-offs and myriad trails through the mountain's spurs and draws, there was still plenty of dead ground that their enemies knew how to use. No shortage of places to hide.

"It won't be long." Atticus nodded his head toward their men lying in their concealed positions. "We own the high ground, at least."

Behind him, the former Soviet Army sergeant stopped for a moment to gaze at him through his goggles, and simply grunted, falling silent. This all reminded him far too much of another time, long ago, when he and the rest of his Company attempted to hold a different hill, in a lengthy, now infamous battle. His mouth twisted into a fleeting, bitter smile.

 _So did_ _**we** _ _…_

Handsignals and hisses of warning sent them diving for cover. In a motionless crouch, thorns digging into his face, Kamarov did his best not to breathe. What he saw made him feel like a wide-eyed eighteen-year-old conscript all over again.

Ten silent strangers, clad in loose black clothing and headdresses, crept past them with remarkable stealth. Their chest rigs bulged with spare magazines and grenades. Some had RPGs. An AK traveled a couple of feet past Kamarov's nose, with a slight squeak and rattle, and stopped. Its bearer's hand curled around the weapon to silence it.

He wondered if this _dukh_ could hear his heart pounding — he was close enough to reach out and touch him. Unable to hold it any longer, Kamarov struggled to make his next breath long, low and shallow.

A whisper ahead, and they moved on, flowing like ghosts up the trail. Finally, one of his men signaled the all-clear, and Kamarov's gloved hand emerged from the thorn bushes, waving them forward. As if the rocks themselves came to life, they slowly rose to follow, a confrontation now unavoidable.

* * *

Price's wariness crackled around him like a forcefield, every sense tuned to its maximum. His eyes strained to make out shapes and movement in dim green, ears tuned for the smallest sound, feeling out the uneven ground with tentative steps. The NVGs had stolen his depth perception; it would be easy to take a bad step that could turn into a fall.

Feeling the Yanks' eyes on him, he kept his own straight ahead. They _knew_ , and no mistake. The question was how much – the kill/capture order and the Interpol Red Notice were a given.

He'd spent time with Delta on past missions. Solid blokes – he'd even kept in a touch with a couple of them, at least for a while. The 'quiet professionals' had lived up to their name. So how would they handle this? Price had a pretty good idea. Good thing he and Soap weren't planning on sticking around that long.

Their thinly veiled hostility was no surprise. To them, he was a traitor in more ways than one. Being an SAS commando had meant being part of an international brotherhood, one that he'd longed to return to when he'd been offered a place in Taskforce 141. One that took care of its own, in the event of injury, death … and betrayal, whether real or perceived — he knew this all too well. While in the Regiment, he'd participated in such judgment. By the time he'd made Captain, he'd listened to MacMillian's stern counsel and distanced himself from it, though he'd turned a blind eye when it came to his subordinates. Some matters were still best sorted in a pub's car park - _if_ they'd been feeling charitable, and the bastard in question was lucky.

More unsettling to him was, while some of the Deltas were just coolly indifferent, others seemed to be taking it personally. Why? Had Shepherd truly inspired such loyalty? Long viewed as a sympathetic figure after the loss of his men in the Middle East, he'd been a charismatic leader, popular in his own way. But behind the General's back, Price had still heard all the same jokes about knife hands and PowerPoint. This had to be about something else.

He looked over at Sergei, who lay prone next to him. The lad had clearly been shaken by his mate's injury. For both their sakes, Price needed to make sure he was still switched on. He risked a quick, whispered conversation: "Still no punters. I don't like this."

"If they didn't hear him screaming from the mountaintop, you'd think they'd at least be curious about the lack of firelight by now," said Sergei, not taking his eyes off his gunsights.

"Or they've got something else in mind," Price said, his cheek welded firmly against his AK's synthetic stock, watching his own sector. "Behind the waves of cannon fodder are some hard men."

Sergei nodded. "Playing the game they know best."

None of the dead had night vision, but had somehow made their way up the rough terrain in very low illume. Price noted the moon's position. The night had grown long. Dawn wasn't far away, and daylight was _not_ their friend. They needed that air support, sharpish.

A bright thin beam of light lanced across his vision — the infrared laser from someone's rifle. _For FUCK's sake!_ His thrill of anger was accompanied by a whispered burst of irritated Russian in his headset. The beam wagged back and forth, then disappeared.

"Somebody got told," whispered one of the Americans.

Price turned to Sergei. "Not all spooks and soldiers, were they, when they joined up with you lot?"

A sigh. "No… "

"Too late, it's done."

A single distant rifle shot rang out, echoes calling out the presence of every surrounding hillside.

_And there you have it. One good cock-up deserves another — you'd think we were at war._

"Do _not_ engage. That wasn't accurate." Hagar's tone over the radio was flat, his words measured - the voice of a man severely pissed off and trying to pretend that he was addressing his own men as well. Price could sympathize with him there. "We need to make sure that doesn't happen again — no lasers, no chem lights, no Fireflies. _Someone's_ got NVGs over there, for all the good it's doing them."

Dead silence returned, accompanied by deepening night. Clouds were drifting across the moon, as unwelcome as Price's continued reverie. Delta's mixed reaction ate at him; his thoughts moved on from Shepherd to Hotel Bravo. Now, Shadow Company … those weren't the cowboys and the Walter Mittys that he'd seen on the Circuit. Quite the opposite. It wasn't too hard to work out where Shepherd might have drawn that level of talent.

The sudden gust of wind was cold. He tensed at an unexplained cracking sound in the cliff face behind them, followed by a few falling pebbles. Nothing was there.

Not yet.

The moon disappeared completely, the darkness closing in around them.

* * *

 Kurt's voice came over Mike's earpiece. "Markhor, I've got movement. Ridgeline, two o'clock, two hundred meters—"

 _Whump_.

Mike braced himself. It wasn't the incoming mortar he expected - with a Fourth-of-July pop, they were bathed in the flickering light of an illumination round. The bright orb hovered overhead in a lazy drift to Earth, leaving a serpentine trail of smoke in its wake.

"Markhor Six, this is Ursus Six," said Kamarov.

"Send it," Hagar barked.

"Be advised, just eliminated ten hostiles approaching your right flank. How copy?"

"Copy that. We just -"

The air around them exploded into a crackling green neon web. Mike and Chuckles huddled tight to the ground, wincing at sharp rock fragments, sparks flying all around them, the incoming tracer rounds like falling embers. The roar of gunfire slowed to sporadic snaps, enough to get a word in edgewise.

"Think they know we're here?" That earned a frowning glance from Chuckles.

The flare went out. A few more tracers _zip-zip-zipped_ in over their heads, the salvo ending with a shuddering roar. Silent darkness fell again, a shroud of deepest black.

Gun barrels bobbed up and down with rapid breaths, scanning left to right and back again.

Somewhere in the distance, a man's scream tore into the void and gurgled to an abrupt stop.

"What the hell was that?" said Chuckles between clenched teeth.

Random shouts broke the silence. "CONTACT!"

"CONTACT FRONT!"

Again the night was electrified with the snap and whine of bullets, alight with muzzle flashes, thickening with pungent smoke.

Mike's SAW spouted flame. Just below his position, where moments before there had been nothing, he could make out dark figures jerking and twisting to the ground, as more advanced up the slope.

Between the bursts of machine gun fire, he heard yelling, both on and off the radio.

"All units, this is Markhor Six, we're in contact! I say again, we are in contact!"

"They got Chapel - they cut his throat!"

Despite the wall of lead, they were coming right at him, closing in. Just like before. Mike went cyclic, spent casings and link rolling around his elbow, until his gun made the worst sound it could: nothing.

"FUCK!" He struggled with the cocking handle and flipped open the feed tray.

"Hurry up!" Chuckles kept up a steady rate of semiautomatic fire.

"Got it!" Barely noticing the burn from the hot casings bouncing off his face, Mike pounded the tray shut with his fist. Hostiles were less than twenty-five yards away now. One brought an RPG tube up over his shoulder.

They'd barely registered the _whoosh_ of the incoming airburst round before it blotted out everything.

The noise and pain lasted only a nanosecond.

* * *

The mortar tube thumped again. In the sizzling light, shadows swirled and coalesced into chaos – the enemy was right here, all around them.

To Price's left, a figure in black - one arm whipped backward from a fountain of blood as a struggling Russian slumped beneath him. Price sent three rapid shots into the NDA man, who pitched forward onto his kill. Shadows leapt across the ground in front of him — Price whirled to see Sergei throw his own attacker over his shoulder and fire a point-blank burst into another. As the first man got up for a counterattack, Price leapt after him. Wishing for a bayonet, he lashed out with his rifle. When the man turned, Price's kick flung him backward. In a wild grab, the hostile caught Sergei's trouser leg, yanking his feet out from under him. Both cartwheeled over the edge of the hillside, while someone grabbed Price from behind, clamping a hand around his chin.

His hands flew up automatically as cold steel bit into the flesh of his neck.

* * *

Mike blinked, wiping grit from his eyes, and spat out a mouthful of dirt. "Chuckles?" he croaked. Groaning, he rolled over to see the blurry double image of his semiconscious teammate crawling next to him, bleeding dark streaks through a thick coating of pale dust. "Chuck?"

Another illume round burst to life overhead as a bearded, black-clad miltiaman crested the berm above. Through pure reflex, Mike tore his pistol from his chest holster and squeezed out four rounds, launching the man out of his sandals and into a faceplant between them. Strange voices penetrated the ringing in his ears, this time below him and to his right. Holstering the pistol, he staggered drunkenly up the berm, though the 30-pound SAW seemed to weigh nothing in his hands. He low-crawled the rest of the way to peer down from their small ridge.

He blinked rapidly, as if further clearing his vision would wake him from the nightmare below. _Holy fucking shit_. There were dozens of them, draped in black cloth and bristling with weaponry, their faces barely showing beneath headdresses, pakols and shawls. AKs, RPGs, grenades, knives. A couple of Russians lay huddled in dark pools, while their killers engaged in hand-to-hand combat with others near the military crest of the hillside. One fell over the edge, still grappling with his opponent, as more bad guys moved in for a piece of the action.

All clustered together. Out in the open.

 _Don't mind if I do._ Mike lit them up, marching his tracers through the advancing crowd, who toppled over like mown wheat, until the SAW jammed to a halt. Again.

"GOD DAMN IT!" he screamed. He now had the full attention of the survivors, who began to fire back.

Looking around wildly, he spied the fallen tango's AK and picked it up, spraying a burst over his head in their direction, then rolled toward the body to use it for cover. Propping the barrel on the dead man's foot, he squeezed off another burst, watching more men fall, and stopped short.

One of Kamarov's guys still remained, struggling against a hostile's thick arm wrapped around his neck, a blade flashing closer to its mark — the Loyalist had control of the knife hand, but just barely. In a moment he would join the bodies on the rocks, his throat slashed from ear to ear, and Mike couldn't do anything to stop it. He couldn't shoot, couldn't get there fast enough.

When the Russian whipped his head back, smashing his helmet into his attacker's face, Mike realized who it actually was.

His eyes narrowed behind his NVGs. Price.

The sounds of the battle behind him faded into the background as he watched Price thrash and buck against his assailant. The big man was unfazed other than being momentarily thrown off balance, pivoting them halfway around. Now Mike could no longer see their faces, only that Price was slowly being overpowered. He felt nothing but calm.

He glanced over at the jammed SAW, and down at the weapon in his hands.

The enemy's weapon.

 _Fuck it._ He lined up the pair in his sights. _This one's for Dave._

As the flare overhead blinked out, the AK chattered in his hands. The force knocked them both over the edge, their bodies spinning away into the darkness.

His skin crawled when he heard the shaky voice behind him. "Mike?"

He felt heat rising in his face, and was glad no one could see it as he dropped to his knees beside his wounded teammate. "Right here man, I got you."

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

**Charlie Mike –** Continue mission

 _ **Dukh [дух] –**_ ghost/spirit (derogatory)

 **Markhor –** Mountain goat found in the Hindu Kush and surrounding areas. The national animal of Pakistan. AKA the 'snake eater'.

 **Operation Magistral -** Soviet military operation during the Soviet-Afghan war to open the road between Gardez and Khost. One major event was the Battle for Hill 3234, the basis for the Russian film _9th Company_

 **TOC -** Tactical Operations Center

 **Walter Mitty (or "walt") -** military slang for a wannabe


	17. Rubicon

Both men shook with effort, the blade cutting deeper, when something slammed into Price with stunning force.

His scream of pain was cut short. The ground whirled away from his feet to come back and smash him in his good side, then his bad one, blasting the remaining breath from his lungs. His goggles twisted away from his face, immersing him in total darkness. He crashed through what felt like some small trees until his rifle caught on something with an abrupt jerk on his shoulder. His dangling legs found nothing but air before the sling slipped off his arm, dropping him into a hailstorm of sharp blows and raking scratches. Plunging into a pile of loose rock, he skidded to halt on his back.

For the next few moments, he wasn't sure how long, the pain was all he knew — in his back, in his ribs, in the excruciating coughing fit from the dust. His mind reeled, until he became aware of the sharp stones digging into his squirming body. His first coherent thought was _not again._

He stopped coughing and froze, listening. The ground was still moving from where he'd disturbed it; he could hear flakes of shale hissing down the hill until they pattered away over some unseen dropoff.

Like a fly in a web, Price struggled to pull his mired limbs free. Still buried up to his ankles, it helped keep him upright as he swayed with dizziness, an arm tucked against his injured side. A knee bent to balance himself against the steep slope, he reached up. His goggles were missing.

A cough, a sputter in the darkness, from someone whose eyes were well-adjusted to the dark. Unlike Price, who was effectively blind.

His hand flew to his holster — miraculously, the Serdyukov was still there.

Swishing steps, getting faster. Coming closer.

Price fired at the sounds, the muzzle flashes strobing frozen images of a murderous giant lumbering toward him. Stringy dark hair and a beard framed wild eyes and bared teeth.

The shots went wide. His head slammed back against the rocks in a burst of light, the pistol flying out of his hand. If he didn't still have his helmet on, the blow would have caved in his skull. As they pawed at each other, Price discovered his enemy's eye, tried to hook a finger in, missed. His knee shot out, producing a scream that quickly withdrew. Not the response he was expecting — the bastard sounded almost as surprised as he was. Price had no time to reflect on this new advantage; when he rolled away he quickly began to gain momentum. He'd just clawed his way to a stop when staggering footsteps hissed after him through the shale. He scooped up a handful and flung it at the sound. As he patted himself down, finding sudden reassurance, the roar was like an oncoming train.

_Shit. That just pissed him off -_

Crushing weight swatted him to the ground. As they grappled in a slow downhill slide, a calloused hand pressed down on his nose and mouth. Price bit down, hard. With an angry snarl came a powerful blow — more sparks, the taste of iron. They rolled over, loose rock swirling around them. Pieces skittered past, racing them downhill. When the hand clamped around his throat, Price found what _he_ wanted. He mentally followed the invisible arm up to the man's chest and thrust the knife between his ribs.

That did it. The man immediately backpedaled as Price's blade sang out again and again. Grunts of pain became watery gasps, his enemy's lung deflating with every breath. Price sprang after him, the knife a whistling arc that ended in a weak howl and a spatter of warmth. As Price coiled for another strike, there was a heavy thud in front of him. Satisfaction turned to alarm when he heard the man sliding. He stepped back, and the shifting ground beneath him disappeared completely, the knife clanging away somewhere behind him.

Price flailed in a fruitless attempt to swim upstream against the rockfall raining down on him. He twisted onto his back, picking up speed, his skidding heels doing little to slow his descent. Larger stones bludgeoned him on all sides as felt the ground closing in around him, like a funnel, then cool air on his face with a smell of sulfurous damp. A cave!

The air was getting colder, the smell stronger. His feet hit firm rock. Finding a root to grab, he strained his thigh muscles in a desperate squat, almost toppling over face first, and stopped. His foot slipped, sliding over the rock to find another. Every muscle tensed, he wedged himself in place.

His ragged moans reverberated around him in what sounded like a well. Maybe if he could catch his breath, it wouldn't hurt so much. " _Ugh …_ okay… okay _,_ " he panted.

With a telltale wheeze below him, a fierce grip clamped around his ankle. The wheeze became words, the language unknown. The man was speaking to him.

The tight space amplified the sound. Just a whisper, of rhythmic quality, without malice. The grip weakened, the man fighting for breath. The words came faster, sounding more desperate. Making his peace? Asking for or offering forgiveness?

Price would never know. He didn't care. He was slowly being dragged down.

_Time's up._ He planted a firm boot where he imagined the face was.

There was a terrible slithering of panicked limbs failing to find a handhold, then nothing until a few rocks followed with a tumbling crack, going distant even as the echoes grew greater. It was deep, whatever it was. He never heard the body hit. If he went much further, no one would hear his.

Gunfire crackled somewhere overhead. Price took some painful breaths, as deep as he could manage, and swallowed. Once the shaking stopped, he managed, by inches, to get himself turned around.

Only one way out.

Now the real challenge began. Blind fingers traveled over the rock, finding one big enough to grab. Then came the search for footing. The Earth's cold breath chilled the back of his neck, a reminder of what awaited him if he slipped.

A move up … no more handholds. All right. Down then, to the side … maybe that was better. Maybe worse. Just had to keep going in the direction of warmer air, hoping for some sort of progress in the dark. Patting a hand, reaching just a little further, but not too far. There. Now the foot, the other hand. Pull. Push. The other foot. Up.

The sporadic noise of the firefight above told him he hadn't far to go. He made that his focal point, refusing to acknowledge the pain or the tremor creeping into his limbs. Slow and steady, he reminded himself. His mouth twitched. _A bloody snail could outrace me at this point_ —

Gravel bounced off his helmet.

"Saleem?"

Price didn't have to see his own hands to know his knuckles were whitening.

The whispered voice overhead tried again, a bit louder this time. "Saleem?" A surprised yelp rose to a scream, cut short by a crash against the rocks just above him. With a breeze and a change in sound, a body plummeted past him, another cry fading, stones clattering down after it with a deepening echo: _tok-tok, tok…_ _Tok._

_Tok…_

Between that and what he heard next, he nearly fell down the shaft anyway. " _Letiteh goloubi, letiteh_ ," a familiar voice crowed. Someone else snorted back a laugh.

"Kamarov?" he breathed.

"Price! What are you doing down there?"

Price rolled his eyes. "Potholing, what does it look like?"

Several sets of gloved hands gripped him and pulled, dragging him out of there as his feet scrabbled for anything solid. "That's one hell of a sense of timing you've got," Price said through gritted teeth as his tender midsection made contact with the edge of the hole.

Kamarov grunted with effort. "So I've been told."

* * *

Finally, Price stood on wobbly legs, unseen hands tearing tape and sorting out his vest while Kamarov fiddled with his helmet.

"Looks like your radio survived," he said. Someone else thrust a rifle into Price's hands. "You weren't too hard to find."

Squinting upward, Price could barely make out some broken branches against the night sky. He was pretty sure some of his kit was still up there. "You don't say."

"Here," Kamarov said, reconnecting Price's lost NVGs back onto his helmet and swinging him back into half a green world. One of the eyepieces was cracked — the left one, fortunately. He found himself surrounded by a handful of Loyalists. One was supporting Sergei, who hadn't fared as well during his own fall downhill. His face was swollen and bloody from multiple cuts and scratches. He was favoring his right leg, the knee of his trousers shredded and stained. His left arm dangled uselessly next to him, though he still held his rifle.

"All right, mate?"

"My pride, mostly," groaned Sergei. "You?"

"Nothing a month of sleep and a bottle of Scotch won't cure."

"What's this?" Kamarov's goggles panned downward.

" _Ah,"_ Price flinched. He looked over his shoulder to see one of the men poking a finger through a hole in the back of his jacket, probing his vest. Though it had plenty of competition at the moment, that explained the steady burning ache in his back. He'd been shot.

"It didn't go through," said Kamarov, whose own face was scored with bleeding scratches.

Price nodded, wincing. "Something hit me hard, just didn't know what. The bloke I fought, he was hurt. The round must have punched through him and struck the plate. The blood on my shirt is his."

"That's not." Kamarov pulled aside the torn remains of Price's shemagh, tilting his head up. It stung — the fabric had stuck to the wound. "He got you, but it's not deep." He shook his head. "Lucky… " At a glance from Price, he stopped himself. "I won't say anything more, I know better."

"Good man."

"You hear that?"

"Sounds like you've pushed them back," said Price, noting the lull in the battle, and how it had migrated south of their position.

"No, not that." The vibration started in Price's inner ear, then his chest. Helicopters. Kamarov's grin was bright amid the dark smears of camouflage cream. "What sweet music they make _."_

"Roger that."

Hands reached for helmets. The IR strobes sent up brilliant pulses of light in Price's NVGs.

After some brief instructions from Kamarov, his men began to move out. Limping between them, Sergei turned back to Price for a moment, inclining his head in silent acknowledgment. Price gave a short nod in return, and that was that. By the look of him, the lad would soon be spending more time with his magazine collection. He and Kamarov stood in silence, watching them leave.

"It's under control. Now … go, my friend." Seeming to sense Price's reluctance, Kamarov spoke again quickly. "They're waiting for you."

The firm handshake was little comfort. Price grasped for words of thanks that didn't come. "See you on the other side then, eh?"

"Oh we'll be seeing each other sooner than that." Kamarov chuckled. "You're not _that_ lucky."

"Don't I know it!"

"Go!"

Price couldn't help but look over his shoulder once or twice as he climbed back up the hill, watching the blinking flashes recede. It was getting easier to see, further and brighter. Dawn was coming.

* * *

Price continuously scanned the ground ahead as he zigzagged through the patchy trees crowning the mountaintop. Easier said than done, with only one-sided night vision to go by. He didn't need another fall, and he didn't need to be caught out in the open by following the path, though he was starting to second-guess that decision. There were no guarantees that he wouldn't run into any more landmines up here.

The thumping of the helicopters grew louder.

Come to think of it, there were no guarantees that some pilot with a minigun slaved to his helmet wouldn't think he was one of the bad guys. His own helmet strobe was long gone.

Over the sound of the approaching choppers, he heard a crackling exchange of gunfire, not far from where he and Kamarov's team had parted ways. Nothing they couldn't handle.

Thunderous noise engulfed him. A blacked-out helo passed overhead - the narrow, sharp angles of an Apache, another close behind it. They swooped around and dove over the crest of the hill like giant wasps. There was a third deeper, lower thump of another larger helo somewhere. An evac bird … and a possible QRF. He quickened his pace. The sounds faded as they made a first pass.

He stumbled to one knee, steadying himself against a tree trunk. Head bowed, eyes screwed shut, he concentrated on taking slow, controlled breaths. The pain and exhaustion were gaining on him, along with some bitter truths. Some of _those_ he'd been ignoring for months, years. He'd never fully recovered from his imprisonment. He should've listened, let the medics do their thing. He'd let his pride — he snorted. _If you want to call it that_ — get in the way. He'd heard what he'd wanted to hear, and that hadn't been much, though Misha's warning about internal hemorrhage had stuck with him. He'd had a fool's luck, but he'd also taken yet another beating. Once they got to the safe house, he'd behave himself, take it easy…

He scowled. Bargaining — wasn't this what people did when they thought they wouldn't make it?

_No, 'Old Man'. You're not allowed. Not yet._

Bringing his rifle back up, he pushed himself off from the tree. Put one foot in front of the other.

The confrontation behind him was escalating into a vicious firefight. It didn't make sense. _This lot should be scattering like cockroaches by now. They're certainly about to see the light._

He spotted the landmarks Kamarov had told him about. Halfway there. The sooner they got to their vehicle, the sooner they could get the hell out of this godforsaken place. His eyebrows quirked. Lovely country, at least he'd thought so during the very brief time he'd spent not being shot at. Maybe he'd appreciate it more once they'd made it up North. He'd be able keep a proper eye on Soap, at least, while they waited for Nikolai. Once again, the Russian pilot had the right connections _and_ their six. Africa was just the right part of the world to disappear in, perhaps for good. It was just as well. Every morning was a not-so-gentle reminder that he'd had enough cold and damp to last him a lifetime.

The radio chirped in his ear. "We see it, Ursus Six. Coming to you!" shouted Hagar.

That didn't sound like Kamarov had the situation under control after all. Price slowed his pace and cocked his head, listening. Despite the appearance of the gunships, the enemy fire had only intensified. They weren't going anywhere. They were engaging at close range, and moving closer, too close to be fired upon by air support. Help had arrived, except they wouldn't be able to do a damned thing. They wouldn't be able to shoot the enemy without hitting their own.

Echoes of gunfire galloped through the hillsides, along with the shouts of those fighting — and dying. It stung him. He'd spent over half his life running _toward_ those sounds.

Almost there.

Angry Russian chatter filled the radio. He stopped when he heard Sergei's name.

"Ursus Six, talk to me. What's happening, over?" said Hagar.

"They're trying to take the wounded," Kamarov's voice sputtered. "They've taken Sergei!"

Price's shoulders slumped. Kamarov's abandonment of radio protocol made it clear how he felt. They would use Sergei as a human shield, but it wouldn't likely stop there.

Price took a few steps … closer to the RV, Soap, and freedom. He stopped. Wincing momentarily, he let his head fall back, shoulders heaving. The sky above was growing paler.

He thought about the grisly photos and videos he'd seen on the Internet. About Kamarov's war stories. Captured Soviet soldiers had been found with their skin slitted at the waist, peeled up and tied over their heads, the less fortunate ones still alive.

The enemy's tactic would work as designed; they _would_ be divided and possibly conquered, because no one was about to abandon Sergei to his fate.

Including him. He turned on his heel and ran back the way he'd come.

* * *

It wasn't long before he saw them. Price remained stock-still, like the trees he stood among. Waiting. There were two of them on a narrow footpath down below — the same baggy black clothing, the wide, flat pakols on their heads, the drab chest rigs with the long AK magazine pouches. The rifles to match, grenades, knives. It was the limp body dangling between them that got his attention. Russian fatigues, no helmet … short blond hair. Head thrown back, hands and arms flopping, bootheels digging twin furrows behind him. The entire front of his shirt was a dark stain. But Sergei was alive, had to be, otherwise they had no reason to drag him this far.

Price's mouth hardened into a thin line. He didn't want to think about what that reason might be. Whatever these two cunts were playing at, they were about to face a change in plans.

_Far enough_. Gun up, Price kept his pace just behind theirs with soft footfalls, moving from tree to tree. Holding the live branches steady, picking his way through the dead ones underfoot.

As they disappeared and reappeared over the contours of the land, Price adjusted his angle of approach, choosing just the right moment to emerge from the trees. Staying low, he stalked down the slope, catlike, between the small rises and depressions. Dropping to a crouch, he got another quick glimpse of their cargo, who wasn't moving at all. Compared to his shirt, there wasn't much of a blood trail. Neither was a good sign, and he didn't even have so much as a field dressing. Sergei would just have to hold on until Price was able to hand him off to the Russians.

Hopefully they'd be the ones he'd run into first.

_Come on…_ He still didn't have a shot. The mushroom-shaped hats bobbed up and down out of sight over the small hill Price was flattened behind. He was running out of time; he needed to hurry up and sort them out while there were still only two of them.

They stopped for a moment to catch their breath. _How very kind of them._ Waiting until they were looking the other way, he picked up a stone and flung it over their heads.

Startled, they let go of Sergei, who collapsed in a heap. The rifles came up, pointing in the wrong direction. Through one eye, Price watched a pakol fly off in a spray of mist, the dark body dropping like liquid. His AK swung left and barked again. The second man crumpled out of sight, screaming.

Curling his lip, Price strode out of cover, his rifle leading the way. Dickhead Number Two was writhing on the ground, gut shot, making a hell of a racket. _Ah, screaming for one's mum — the universal language._ Since Sergei lay right next to him, Price had to get a lot closer before he could shut him up.

Number Two rolled over, reaching a hand out, when he jerked twice in time to a lighter double crack from another rifle. Green landscape streaked past Price's front sight as he spun around.

"Price - friendly at your three o'clock."

_SHIT._ 'Friendly' was a matter of perspective. Like 'friendly' fire. "I see you … Rerun?"

"Affirmative."

The compact, dark-haired Delta operator stepped forward, his HK416 sweeping back and forth. Price did the same, putting his back to Rerun's as they moved in concert toward the two hostiles and their motionless captive. Price's jaws clamped together in anticipation of what he might find.

When he took a knee next to the pale body and finally got a good look, laying a hand on cold skin, it was all he could do to keep a straight face.

Not as straight as he would have liked, apparently. "That isn't one of Kamarov's guys. We've seen Chechens swelling their ranks lately. They might be behind some of their new tactics," said Rerun.

_Fucking brilliant._ He was no use to Soap dead. Now not only had he just risked getting killed by trying to save the wrong man, he'd just delivered himself right into the hands of the ones they'd been trying to avoid.

Soap would be waiting, but Price wouldn't arrive.

The Yank's NVGs darted everywhere, sparing Price a quick glance. "You look like I feel. What are you doing alone out here?"

His mind raced. In this case, the truth wouldn't hurt. "I kind of … fell off the mountain. Lost my bearings. Then a local bloke tried to give me a personal tour. I declined."

"You too, huh?" Rerun's own jacket and Crye combat trousers were torn. "Occupational hazard around here."

Kamarov… the bugger just _had_ to go and say the sodding L-word, didn't he? The way Price's luck had been going, it made his lost 1911 seem more like a talisman than ever. Kamarov had been bloody well right about one thing: seeing him again, because now they'd have to think of something else, and fast. They'd have to get pretty creative in some of their explanations as to what he and especially Soap were doing so far from the bunker. Even worse, it was a fair bet that someone in the crowd of new American faces would know theirs.

"Markhor Nine - where the hell are you? Do you copy?" Hagar's voice crackled over the radio.

"I copy, Six. Got a little sidetracked. Making my way over to you."

"Negative. Start moving toward RV Charlie. We're going to try and herd most of them into one spot."

"Rog'." Rerun released his mic and resumed addressing Price. "If the people don't kill you, the land itself might."

"What's this?" Price saw light shining through one of the dead men's clothing. Using the peaked front sight of his AK, he pushed the fabric aside. Aghast, he picked up a cheap knockoff digital camera, looking at Rerun's IR image in the tiny glowing square.

"No shit." Leaning in to look at it, the American shook his head. "Something's changed. This isn't the same crew we were up against a couple of days ago."

"Small wonder they were able to find us so easily in the dark," said Price.

"Yeah. And when we put our Fireflies on for the helos, we led them right to us."

The radio squawked again. "All units – package has been found. He's stable." said Hagar. "Markhor Nine, what's your ETA to the RV?"

Price's relief was cut short. "Solid copy, Markhor Six," said Rerun. "RV in ten mikes."

In less than ten minutes, he'd be as far from escape as it gets without being handcuffed. That bit would come later.

Jagged black peaks appeared against a flickering sky, followed by a couple of booms. The Apaches were emptying their rocket pods onto other targets near the HLZ.

There had to be another way. The Yanks would be preoccupied, busy with the wounded and the 'squirters'…

The distant rotor beat swelled again. One of the choppers was about to make another pass overhead. "Speaking of Fireflies," Rerun dropped his rifle to hang from its sling, reaching for his helmet.

"If any of them are still about, they'll be all over us." More dim light from one of the bodies caught Price's eye.

Rerun sounded thoughtful. " _…_ Yeah."

The thumping was getting loud now. In a moment it would drown out everything. Price held up another glowing object, this time a mobile camera phone with an IR function.

"Just going to have to take that chance," said Rerun, raising his voice to compete with the noise. He paused, sounding more hesitant. "At this point, I'd be more worried about… "

Price's chest thrummed. It was difficult to hear Hagar over the radio. "All units - has anyone seen Price?"

He could barely make out how Rerun finished his thought. " …fratricide."

Just as Price began his slow turn, a gunshot exploded somewhere to his left. Both he and Rerun hit the ground, Price dropping to his belly. He twisted his AK around in its sling and opened up in long bursts, hosing down the area where he'd seen the muzzle flash, until it clicked empty. As the overwhelming thump of the helo faded, replaced by his heart pounding in his ears, he strained to listen. Someone was yelling; he'd wounded them. He smiled grimly to himself. _Does that hurt, you bastard? Let me help you with that._

"Price!" The voice in his headset was one he'd heard before, the accent like his. He froze. "Price! Cease fire! Cease fire, for fuck's sake!"

"Who's there?" Price huffed.

No longer over the radio, the shout issued from somewhere in front of him. "We're coming out, now don't fucking shoot us. Stand down."

The barrel of his AK dipped, and he suddenly realized that Rerun hadn't said anything. Come to think of it, he hadn't fired a single shot. Price scooted backward on his knees, right hand still gripping his rifle, reaching his left hand out to push himself up while keeping his eyes on the approaching men. He expected to feel a rock but felt something soft instead. He patted along its surface. Fabric, laces … a boot. A leg.

He spun around – Rerun was splayed out beside him on his back, utterly still.

Two men were in front of him now, dressed and kitted out like Kamarov's Loyalists. One switched on his AK's tac light and began to slowly pan the red circle up along the Delta operator's body. They all flipped up their goggles and Price fished out his own red-lensed torch, following suit. There was a dark hole below Rerun's left eye, which stared in an unnatural direction. What had previously been the contents of his skull now pooled in the back his helmet, the gruesome signature of an AK round.

Smoke dribbled out of the rifle barrel, into the dim beam of light. Sucking a breath through his teeth, Price shined his light in the man's face. A pair of troubled blue eyes regarded him from beneath a furrowed brow. The hallmark bruised mask of a broken nose, a line of stitches over one eyebrow and a long scar dividing the other. "Soap!" Price gasped. "What the hell are you -" The look he received was enough to give him pause.

Armaan sighed angrily and turned his back to them, flipping his NVGs back into place and raising his own AK-74, keeping watch.

MacTavish lowered his gaze back to the dead operator, almost in reverence, and nodded as he panned the light across the body's upper half. "Look closer, Old Man." Soap's light traveled past the outflung right hand, further along the ground … to a Sig Sauer pistol, its hammer cocked.

Price's breath left him in a rush.

"Looks like we just crossed the Rubicon," said MacTavish.

This moment, and what passed wordlessly between them, was one that would forever burn itself into Price's memory. He looked back down again, taking in both the sight of the dead man and all that it meant.

_Alea iacta est._

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

_**Alea iacta est –**_ "The die is cast." Famously uttered by Julius Caesar when he crossed the river Rubicon under force of arms, an act of open rebellion against the Roman Senate.  Similar concerns were expressed by Soap voice actor Kevin McKidd in the HBO series  _Rome. ;-)_

_**Letiteh goloubi, letiteh [Летите голуби, летите] –**_ "Fly pigeon, fly!" Reference to the old Russian film _Farewell to the Pigeons_. In this context, a pigeon being something that needs killing; a Russian take on 'Run Forrest run!'

**Potholing –** Caving, spelunking.

**RV -** rendezvous point


	18. HUMINT

***Original post 10/12/2013; minor revisions 9/30/2016***

* * *

He had to hold the zipper up as he pulled, to lift the black vinyl away from what remained of Rerun's face.

"Til we meet again, brother," said Hagar, resting a hand on the vinyl covering his former teammate's chest. He pushed himself up from his crouch to stare down at the body bag, which had been moved to the floor of a small storeroom to join the remains of their other KIA, Chapel. The edges of the dog tag bit into his palm, the chain dangling from his fist.

Behind him, Atticus glanced at the door to ensure it was shut, his Mississippi accent becoming more prominent with his soft question. "You believe Kamarov's story?"

"I believe Price fell down the hill. Mike said he saw him go over the edge, said it looked like he'd been hit. His knife, the blood, the drag marks – I believe _someone_ fell into that cave. In the shape he was in, I could also believe he could've been dragged off. _Could've_. Yet in the meantime, 'Lazarus' has risen, he and Armaan are nowhere to be found … so to answer your original question, not a fuckin' word." Hagar looked down at the dog tag once more and dropped his hand to his side. "One of the pilots said she saw several hotspots and a couple of strobes leaving the area, before they just blinked out."

"Who's to say the bad guys didn't pick them up?"

"Who's to say it wasn't the 'good guys' all along? Getting harder to figure out which is which."

"Isn't it always the way. So they've legged it, now what?"

Hagar looked sideways at his XO. "Makes it easier if you ask me."

Atticus tilted his head toward the floor. "You think it was them? We hear Armaan on the net screaming at Price to cease fire, right before Josh goes dark, then they all disappear into thin air."

Hagar's throat tightened with nausea as he looked at the vaguely human shapes enshrouded in black. He immediately pushed the thought from his mind. "I'm not gonna go _there_ , not now. This is hard enough, and about to get worse."

"Tell you what man, I don't believe it. Sandman always spoke very highly of these guys. There's got to be more to the story."

"Agency seems to think so. But since almost half our team are either KIA or out of commission, I'm finding it increasingly difficult to give a fuck what the Agency thinks."

"We can't find out what happened if they're dead."

The door rattled open. "Gentlemen." The moment Buzz closed it behind him, the air in the room felt heavier. The good ol' boy persona was long gone. He eyed them both, then the body bags on the floor.

"Does this mean we have your blessing — and the coordinates?" Hagar asked.

"It does. Just keep it quiet."

* * *

The twisted remains of Nikolai's Little Bird still smoldered in the corner of the LZ, where the crews of the two Apaches and the Blackhawk prepared for takeoff. Newly-arrived US Army Rangers had joined Kamarov's Loyalists in securing the airfield. There had been surprisingly few bodies to deal with; the enemy had managed to drag off many of their dead. Now came the unpleasant task of picking up the pieces — literally — left behind by the Apaches' Hydra rockets.

As the remaining members of Hagar's team brushed past the two CIA men, Buzz caught a look from Mike. _And Junior gives me the stink eye. What's that all about?_ They watched the Delta operators load up their gear while the rotors began to spin up.

"Brits aren't honoring the agreement. Not very gentlemanly, I'd say," said Buzz.

"It's their guys. Can you blame them?" Rev asked.

"No."

A small crowd soon followed, bearing several stretchers. Their occupants were wrapped in blankets, faces obscured by masks and tubes. Buzz recognized one of them as the big Russian, Bogdan. Terry brought up the rear, bagging Jake. As they loaded the casualties aboard the Blackhawk, it was clear that many of the helpers weren't needed; they had come to say goodbye. Buzz had watched this scene play out more times than he cared to admit.

Hagar was the last to leave. As he passed, Buzz yelled into his ear, though that was a losing battle against the mounting noise. "I trust you'll keep your team in check."

Hagar shouted back into his face. "Meaning _what?"_

This wasn't how he'd wanted to do this. "Vinson used to run with you guys, right?"

Hagar's stare got colder. "It won't be a problem."

"Those two are a potential goldmine of intelligence."

"We'll do our jobs." Hagar hitched his ruck over his shoulder, ending the conversation before he walked off.

Buzz mouthed exaggerated words he knew his partner could no longer hear: "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

"So tell me again why we're dumping the vehicle with the tinted windows and the air con?"

Soap's question was a fair one. Price looked at their driver.

"Trust me, this is the best way to blend in. C'mon mate, it'll be pimptastic." Keeping one hand on the wheel, Armaan handed Price a plastic carry bag and tossed one over the seat to MacTavish.

Price took a look in the bag and gave a half-hearted scoff, his hand flopping back down into his lap. A means to an end. Fine, as long it did the job and got them to the safe house.

"What the hell is this?" Soap asked.

"Your disguises."

The bag rustled in much the same way Price's had — from quickly being put down. "This just keeps getting better all the time."

"Look, I'm going to get you out of here, now just work with me, all right? If you've got a better idea, Braveheart, I'm all ears. Have either of you taken a good look at yourselves lately?" Armaan grimaced. "Faces that could make an onion cry. You're spoiling the scenery of my beautiful country."

"Don't listen to him, Soap." Price watched the 'scenery' scroll past: rocks, dirt and more rocks. "He grew up in Shepherd's Bush."

MacTavish quirked an eyebrow at that, but kept his curiosity to himself. He peered out his window, craning his head to look up at the sky.

"Oh do stop looking already," said Armaan. "At this point, we're in greater danger from the Yanks on the ground, who now have every reason to kill us accidentally on purpose."

_Not this again._ Price pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well if some cunt hadn't gone and announced it over the radio — "

Price held up a hand in a time-out gesture. "All right." He won himself a precious 30 seconds of silence. It hardly seemed worth the extra throb in his head from raising his voice.

"Right now, we're probably a tiny square on some big screen, pegged by a white crosshair," said MacTavish. "Some fresh-faced Air Force boy sitting somewhere out in America's heartland will push a button, and that will be that. He'll order a pizza and go home to the wife and kids. We'll never see it coming."

Price shook his head. "No, the political fallout from a direct strike would prove far messier than what would be left of us. Now, collateral damage from taking out a local target associated with Makarov - that might be easier to explain."

"Speaking of, you think he's left the country?"

" _Heh_ , if he knows what's good for him," Price said over his shoulder, then went back to his brooding out the window. "They could spin it any way they want. They could follow the terrorist narrative, as in 'Shepherd was right, look who we found 'em in bed with'. Or they could go another way: 'No idea your SAS boys were out here, looks like they were "off the reservation" – set out after Makarov on their own, unsupported, unauthorized - got themselves caught in the crossfire. _Tsk, tsk._ Oh but their hearts were in the right place … _were_.'"

"That's what I love about you, Price," Armaan said. "Your boundless optimism." He looked over and frowned. "That's the most you've said for the entire trip. Far be it from you to shy away from the odd confrontation, but for fuck's sake, how many punch-ups have you been in lately?"

"Ask me next week," said Price tiredly. "How about you, Soap? How are you holding up?"

"Pretty fair, not bad."

Price gave a displeased rumble. In contrast, Soap had been far more talkative than usual, when he wasn't bickering with Armaan. "Your eyes look like headlamps. What did he give you again?"

"It didn't have a name, or he didn't say. Just that it was a mixture of painkiller and stimulant."

"You should be used to _that_ sort of thing, eh?" Armaan muttered.

Soap's jaw stuck out. "I don't drink that shite - "

"Am I going to have to stop this car?" Price's voice rose over them both. Armaan smirked as he navigated a sharp curve in the road. "A better question is, what happens when it wears off?"

"We should be there by then," said MacTavish.

Price sighed, massaging his temples. He knew why the lad had done it — a concept as old as the word 'assassin'. But in his experience, these things had proven to be more trouble than they were worth. Soap hadn't wanted to be a burden, yet this could backfire on him, big style. Such drugs weren't in widespread use for a reason.

When he looked up, Price saw that Soap hadn't merely been avoiding his question.

They had arrived. But not at the safe house.

* * *

It had always struck him odd, the mixture of ancient and modern, familiar and alien; Coca-Cola comes to Planet Tatooine. Other popular Western brand names stood out in a marketplace where, even with them, one couldn't be quite sure what year it was. A sign of a developing country, or one that refused to.

The stands were jammed together on either side of the dirt road, with faded awnings and makeshift overhangs of tarpaulins or corrugated tin. The air was a stifling miasma of livestock, wood smoke, baking bread, spicy food and open sewers, a combination which Price wished he could say he'd never smelled before.

The crowd was mostly men wearing the same baggy clothing in white or soft colors, long shirttails hanging below black vests. Turbans, pakols, embroidered skull caps. Full beards. Apparitions in light blue _burkhas_ drifted among them. With a lace panel covering the eyes, the head-to-toe veil rendered the wearer all but invisible. Along with most everything on the other side — Price could hardly see a damn thing out of his.

His peripheral vision was completely gone, his view of the world reduced to a small rectangular screen. A honking horn sent him darting aside as a yellow-and-white taxi nearly ran him down. Thankfully the bicycles and donkey carts outnumbered the motorized vehicles. Not that they were any less of a hazard; much of what he'd seen so far had been through near-collisions.

And there was plenty to see. Price looked over his shoulder at another veiled figure as he passed pushcarts laden with fruits and vegetables, some of which he didn't recognize. He wasn't sure if that was a nod he got in return, since Soap couldn't afford to give him a more visible acknowledgement. Price turned back around to see cages of live poultry and hanging meat. A freshly killed goat was being butchered for a waiting customer, the flies moving in for the first taste. At least the veil hid Price's expression. The next stall was piled high with Persian rugs and woolen blankets like they'd had in the bunker. Across the road, a boy no older than 16 sat on the ground, hand machining a pistol. Swords and hundred year old rifles were on display behind him, ones he'd love to be able to approach and examine. It was all very interesting. Now if only Armaan would hurry the hell up.

Price and MacTavish looked virtually identical to the other women, including their trousers and footwear. Armaan was dressed like any other male in the small village. Yet the gawking had started the moment their car had rolled into town. It seemed that someone was poking his head out of every window and doorway. The ruse wouldn't last. Price glanced back at the shop Armaan had disappeared into, and almost bumped into a group of people buying helium balloons. The last thing he needed was someone trying to talk to him. _Get your arse out here, kid._ It seemed to work; Armaan walked past a moment later.

The two 'women' fell into step behind him, and they walked in a huddle for a moment, their conversation unheard among the sounds of the market: shouting merchants and shoppers, blaring radios.

"Now remember ladies, ten paces behind me," whispered Armaan.

"I know you can't see it under this dress, mate, but believe me, I've got something for you to rotate on," replied the taller burkha. Price smiled beneath his.

"Savages - can't take you anywhere."

"You got us a new ride, then? What did you tell him?" MacTavish asked.

"That I had an offer he couldn't refuse – and that I like my women with a bit of meat on 'em"

"Aye, I bet you do."

They all fell silent, the passers-by not seeming to notice them for once. Several large and outrageously customized lorries were parked nearby. They had open flat beds, tall sides and huge crown-like rounded facades with matching arched frames in the back for tying things down. "Jingle trucks" — that's what Armaan had said they were called. Every inch of them was decorated with the intricacy of an old-fashioned merry-go-round, but with none of the subtlety. The colors were garish, the geometric designs almost dizzying, with level of detail that Price had to admire, though there was certainly no accounting for taste. Stickers, tassels, beads, chains, artificial flowers. Murals of all sorts, sayings in scrolling Arabic script. Bells jingled, warbling music blared. _To think people take LSD to see things like this … oh bloody hell._ Armaan led them straight to one with a bright orange Mercedes cab. Among countless other minutiae, it featured a portrait of a smiling woman on the back and winking eyes painted above the grille.

In a swirl of blue pleated fabric, MacTavish spun around for a quick look before whispering. "Is he taking the piss?"

If only. Climbing up into it was a painful adventure that made Price and Soap look more like elderly relatives than wives of the young Afghan man in the white shalwar kameez. Price could imagine the onlookers' tut-tutting now: _Poor bloke's got his hands full, don't he?_

Armaan swung himself up into the driver's seat, slammed the door. The lorry coughed to a start and idled while they waited for the others to pull out. "Nothing like hiding in plain sight. These pimped-out monsters are all over Afghanistan… " He paused to wait for a man passing close by, lowering his voice. " … _and_ Pakistan. They're everywhere. Now we just need to hope the eyes above don't choose what's behind door number one."

* * *

**_DUBAI - LOCATION CLASSIFIED_ **

With the bright wall of oversized flatscreens, the line of digital clocks in different time zones, the sea of glowing desktop computer monitors and muttering voices, the vast room looked like NASA's mission control. It was entirely drone camera feeds.

One man among the masses groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Onscreen in front of him, veiled blue ghosts wove their way through the crowded marketplace. Past each other. Some with children, some without. Ducking in and out of sight beneath awnings and overhangs. There must have been fifty of them.

It didn't take long. He picked up the phone on the first ring, seeing the dreaded number form itself in the liquid crystal and just wanting to get it over with. He already knew what the caller was going to say.

"What do you mean, you lost them?"

* * *

The jingle truck lived up to its name as it jerked and swayed over the rocks of the shallow river crossing, the motion setting Price's teeth on edge. Thanks to the deep ruts in the road, they hadn't gotten far enough past the village to take off the sodding burkhas, so his fingertips digging into his knee remained hidden from view.

Not far past the river, they were forced to slow down again by of all things, traffic. The scene was a familiar one: a crowd of men and boys, barking dogs straining against rope and chain while money changed hands. The dogs were large, shaggy and feral-looking, with big blocky heads and ragged flaps that had once been ears. Many had their tails cut half off as well. The crowd gathered around two men, who barely managed to hold their dogs back as they snapped at each other, their snarling faces mere inches apart.

MacTavish scoffed. "Ugh. Nasty things, I hope they both lose."

Their handlers leaned in, and the two brutes hurled themselves into a frenzied knot, a cloud of dust and rubbish boiling up around them. Heads wrenched back and forth, red staining dirty white fur as the onlookers shouted, fists pumping.

Armaan grinned. "Aww, mate – how can you resist something as cute and cuddly as a kutchi dog?"

Though Price didn't feel much like talking, they both needed to get their minds off things, even if just for a few minutes. "Looks a bit like the kind that took a chunk out of you, eh Soap?"

"That was no dog, that was a fucking bear."

"Ah," Armaan jerked the wheel to avoid a massive pothole. "Ran afoul of man's best friend, did we?"

"You might say that."

"Soap has no great love for dogs. They certainly seem to be fond of _him_ , though. The taste of him, anyway." Price eyed MacTavish for a second. "Let's put it this way: he's no stranger to jabs in the arse." Soap straightened a little. "Think I didn't know about your other canine mishap?" Price returned to staring out the window, well aware of the hidden scowl emanating from the back seat. "Don't blame Nikolai. To his credit, it wasn't easy to get it out of him."

"Well?" Armaan looked back and forth between them.

"It's all fun and games until someone passes out from blood loss," said Price.

Soap sighed at Armaan's expectant look. "We'd gotten word that Makarov was revisiting old haunts, and had holed up in some Azeri farmhouse, just like 'daddy' had done. When we got there, the place was empty, more or less. Since the door has been left open, animals had wandered in. Some chickens were scuttling about, and a goat was quite put out by our sudden presence. We'd spread out to clear the rooms when I hear a rustle and there's this explosion of feathers, chickens squawking and flapping all over, and this snarling thing is on me like absolute lightning. I'm a decent-sized bloke, but this dog was almost as big as me, bowled me over like I was a little kid. It was clearly trained to attack, but not in the typical Russian working dog way. More like the French way - this mutt was trained to go for the crotch. He had me on my back, kicking and screaming my head off as he tore at me. All I could see was teeth. I had my pistol out and was trying to figure out a way to slot him without shooting myself when Ghost sprayed him – and me – with a fire extinguisher. Disorientated him long enough for the both of us to say 'down boy'. Fuck me, he was enormous. Bloody great furry thing, something Ghost called an of … of chucka... "

"Ovcharka," said Price. "Caucasian Ovcharka. Georgian shepherd dog."

"Right. It was a night raid, couldn't really see what was going on, we'd dressed the part in our black assault ninja kit. It was all a huge laugh, of course. Relief, aye, but mostly from the sheer ridiculousness of it. Good thing no one else was there - any attempt at remaining covert had gone out the window, we were all giggling away like big girls, me most of all as I limped along, the adrenaline was still flowing. So much that I didn't notice what else was. Next thing I knew, Simon was leaning over me."

Price caught a fleeting odd look on Armaan's face. He filed that one away for later as Soap continued.

"The tourniquet, that hurt worse than the bites. I mumbled something about how stupid it would be, after everything – and how _typical_ \- after cheating death against impossible odds, averting nuclear disaster, Queen, country and all that shite, to die from a dog trying to bite off my bollocks. As ever, my savior was all heart: 'No, that would be far too stupid, even for a wanker like you.' The mutt had gotten me good – apart from almost ending the MacTavish family line, he'd torn a deep gash behind my knee, deep enough to redecorate the wainscoting before I'd noticed the squishing in my boot. Jimmy quickly got the bleeding under control, though. At the time, I still didn't know whether Price was going to join the team or not, he hadn't returned my calls. When I woke the next morning, there he was in the corner, holding court from some naff hospital armchair." Soap imitated Price's voice: " _Not much has changed, I see_."

The chuckle bubbling out of Price ended as a wheeze. He clutched at his sides, the coughing an agonizing but necessary evil to clear the rattle from his lungs.

"All right, Old Man?"

Focusing on the cracked dashboard in front of him, Price did his best to pull himself together. "No."

MacTavish sounded startled by the blunt admission. "You should take something."

"Already did. This is as good as it gets." Open roadway finally lay ahead; they'd soon be able to remove the veils. As they passed a roadside football game, one boy out of the teenaged flock of fluttering shirttails and white skullcaps caught Price's eye - he was wearing a tattered blue New York Yankees baseball cap. There it was again, the strange collision of different worlds.

"Can't stop and rest yet either. We need to make up for lost time," said Armaan. He frowned up at the darkening sky through the pitted windscreen. "Brilliant. Just one more thing we don't need."

* * *

The boy in the Yankees cap stared down the road after the truck. He ignored the ball as it rolled past him and the corresponding shouts from his teammates.

Orange cab, winking eyes on the front, lady on the back - that was the one.

With a quick goodbye to his puzzled friends, he swung a leg over his bicycle and pedaled away at top speed.

* * *

 

**HUMINT -** Intelligence gained from human sources


	19. Pashtunwali

"Nice mobile," MacTavish nodded at the tiny yellow plastic phone in Armaan's hand. It looked like it was all the rage ten years ago — in Japan. "When's your ma coming to pick us up?"

"Does the job," said Armaan. "Since nothing says 'here we are' quite like firing up an encrypted sat-phone. Even _you_ know that." He walked off to make his call, ignoring MacTavish's two-fingered salute.

Now mercifully free of the burkhas, they'd stopped on a hilltop to stretch their legs. Soap wasn't sure what was worse, bouncing around in the lorry for hours or the act of getting out of it. Price had moved even more slowly than he did, and had hardly said a word.

Soap caught himself cradling his wounded abdomen, which throbbed despite the drug cocktail he'd been given. With a flickering glance around, he dropped his hand to his side. _Better harden the fuck up._ _Spent enough bloody time being a liability, now after what he's risked to get me out of here, well ... it's not a fucking option anymore, is it?_

He stopped worrying whether the Old Man had noticed. Price stood in front of the jingle truck's ticking front grille, one painted eye looming on either side of him, arms folded, with an expression that said he had other things on his mind. They both watched Armaan's pacing come to a stop, then the change in his posture. After removing the phone's battery, he returned, his blank face concealing what his body language hadn't.

"Problem?" Price asked.

Armaan hesitated. "Looks like we're in for nasty weather."

"No, really?" said MacTavish. The sky was leaden, the smell of rain in the air. "A blind man could tell there's a storm coming at this point." They both ignored him.

"I recall you lecturing me once about trusting my instincts. What do yours tell you, Price?" When he didn't answer right away, Armaan spoke again, a little too quickly. "Mine tell me we need to wait this out."

Price returned Armaan's pale green stare in kind. He'd caught something else from that exchange, but the glance he finally gave MacTavish was unreadable.

"What about getting there before dark?" Soap asked, wishing darkness was the thing that actually concerned him.

"This shouldn't last long, few hours maybe. We can still make it," said Armaan.

_A few more hours … of borrowed time._

They took in the view, eyes following the winding dirt road downhill to yet another vast, flat expanse. The lone house was like most MacTavish had seen, a nondescript mud brick affair surrounded by tall walls. Like a big brown box sitting inside another, with the occasional splash of color from hanging laundry, painted metal window grates and the red tractor that Soap doubted was even from the 20th century, let alone this one. There was a small assortment of livestock and some patchy fields out back. Beyond that, a gray layer of cloud was settling over black craggy mountain peaks that Soap knew were further away than they appeared. He felt a pang of familiarity — they looked all the world like Corrag Bhuidhe. Like home.

"There will be rockfalls, mudslides. A heavy downpour could wash the road right out from under us," Armaan said. "Whoever lives in that house down there, we're about to pay them a visit."

* * *

 

" _Right_ hand," Armaan hissed. Soap withdrew his left, trying not to let his annoyance show. Following the others' lead, he scooped up some rice with his fingers and managed to get most of it in his mouth.

He was thankful for the cushions they'd been given to sit on; the frayed Persian carpet provided little padding from the bare ground beneath. They all sat cross-legged, boots off, around a tablecloth spread out on the floor, eating from communal dishes. There was the _pillau_ , rice with meat, raisins and vegetables mixed in; naan bread, nuts and some wrapped candies. He could tell they were being offered the very best these people had. Time and again he'd seen it, how the greatest generosity was often found in the humblest of places. Though he didn't have much of an appetite, it would have been rude to refuse, so he chewed the same mouthful until it practically slid down on its own, praying it would help settle the jittery, sick feeling that had been creeping up on him. Besides, him turning down a free meal … _that_ would get the Old Man's antennae up for sure.

Their host Ramesh, a slight man dressed in long drab browns with the tail of his gray striped _lungee_ turban draped over his shoulder, had served them _chai_. His wife had disappeared. MacTavish hoped it had nothing to do with his earlier attempt to thank her for their hospitality, another cock-up that Armaan had been quick to correct. _Oi - don't speak to her, don't look at her,_ he'd said sharply.

Ramesh, he'd learned, was in his late thirties, yet he looked older. His brown face was lined, his black beard half gray. Soap could see how life here could quickly age someone, especially working on this small farm. He wondered where the man's sons were, and after Armaan's tales of local militias and organized crime, he thought it best not to ask.

Though their arrival had resulted in some initial consternation, the sky-blue wooden gates had soon swung open to admit them to Chateau Adobe. As they'd crossed the courtyard, black-and-white rabbits ambled out of their path, seeking shelter from the rumbling thunder.

Now the rain was coming down outside to match the torrent of Pashto inside. Ramesh had been initially cautious and soft-spoken. He smiled at Armaan.

"He's loosening up a bit," said Soap.

"What do you know, I might actually be good for something," said Armaan.

MacTavish shot him a withering look. "He didn't seem too keen on having us at first."

"It's not about what he wants, it's a matter of honor, of doing what's right. We needed shelter and he must offer it."

" _Pashtunwali,"_ said Price. Heads turned; this was the most he'd said since they'd gotten there.

"Exactly," said Armaan.

Ramesh refilled Price's glass with hot green tea. He nodded a mumbled thanks and touched his hand to his chest as they'd seen Armaan do.

As long as MacTavish had known him, Price had been relentless, tireless, switched on 24-7. If you got unlucky in combat, you could count on him being in your face within seconds, screaming at you to get up, no matter what state you were in. And if you had a shred of ability left, you fucking did it.

Now he tried to remain nonchalant about Price's silence, his distant look and stiff uneven gait, like dignity was the only thing still holding him up. Soap knew better than to ask about it, much less offer assistance; he didn't need any more holes in him. "I'm still waiting for mine to cool down and you're on your second one? Business as usual, then. Good. A hot brew will put you right, always does."

Price grunted in reply. Ramesh sat back down and the conversation continued, most of it unintelligible. Soap sipped his chai and almost gagged - there was about an inch of sugar in the bottom of the glass.

"Turns out we were right to stop here. He says that where we're going, the jingle truck would never make it. You ever see the guys on the telly, _World's Most Dangerous —_ " Armaan waved an impatient hand "— _whatever_ , driving these beasts over narrow mountain roads, arse end dangling halfway off a cliff?" He took a drink, glancing down at his glass with a hum of approval. "I'm not one of those guys."

"Well thank fuck for that." MacTavish suddenly grew self-conscious of his swearing, wondering if this bloke knew what the word meant.

"Ramesh is willing to swap vehicles with us."

"The bit of extra money help make up his mind, did it?" Soap sampled one of the candies, pleased to discover it was toffee.

"It didn't hurt. As soon as the weather clears, we'll take his car."

"One that actually runs, I hope. "

"How else would he be rid of us?"

"Fair point."

Soap turned at a soft bump on the carpet behind him. It was Price's empty tea glass, rolling away from limp fingers. His head nodding down on his chest, Price began to slump over, and startled awake when Soap caught him by the shoulders. "Whoa … hey! Price?"

"Wha – Soap? Sorry," he said, blinking.

They were all at his side in seconds, a hushed flurry of Pashto between Armaan and a distressed-looking Ramesh, who each took an arm and got Price to his feet. He swayed unsteadily as they led him over to the worn sofa in the next room. "Come on, Old Man. Time you got your head down for a while," said Soap. Not a word of protest either — now was the time to start worrying — until they lowered him down.

"No – I can't," Price gasped, wincing.

MacTavish cringed inwardly. The ribs – of course, how could he be so daft? His own discomfort was starting to distract him. What food he'd forced down his neck hadn't done him much good. If anything the sickness was getting worse, and so was the dull pain in his belly. _Shite. Not yet, not now._

Armaan explained the situation to Ramesh, whose wife reappeared with some pillows to prop him up with. Soap respectfully averted his eyes until she left. By the time they draped a blanket around Price's shoulders, he was already asleep. Responding to Soap's troubled expression, Armaan spoke with Ramesh further in even tones, then touched his hand to his chest in gratitude. "He says he couldn't bear to see his guest suffer any longer. He put some opium in his tea."

"What?" MacTavish glared at the man.

Armaan stepped in front of him, putting his hands up. "All right, calm down, Smeato. It's common practice here to chase away the aches and pains. Not like they can just nip 'round the corner to the chemist, yeah?"

The jibe had no real bite to it this time; to Soap it sounded more weary than anything. Since his phone call, Armaan seemed to have suddenly lost interest in his favorite sport, pissing him off. MacTavish wasn't so sure he liked this change of heart.

"He's sure he didn't overdo it, more likely Price is just knackered - he'll be fine. He probably hasn't had any proper kip since he first was injured, and this is the most comfortable he's been since. You ever cracked a rib before?"

"Oh aye, I know."

"When we get to the safe house, my mate Blue was one of the best medics in the Army. He'll sort you both out."

MacTavish's eyes narrowed. "Will he? And just who else is waiting for us?"

"Remember when I said you two still have friends in low places?"

" _Who else_ , Armaan? You've danced around my questions all day long. I'm not asking again, so you'd best cut the crap."

Armaan sat down on the end of the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. He sighed. "All right, then. It's going to be a bumpy ride in more ways than one." He looked up at Soap. "You know this. But my mates and I, we're going to get you home. You've heard of the Increment, yeah?"

Soap's eyebrows shot up at the mention of the deniable paramilitary intelligence unit, mostly comprised of former members of the SAS, SBS and SRR. He nodded. "The Increment … E Squadron, or whatever they call themselves now. Can't say I know much about them."

"And rest assured, that's just how we like it." Armaan's trace of a smile was both affectionate and wistful. "But I _can_ tell you that's how I know Price. I'm guessing he disappeared on you for a while?"

"Thought someone might have finally gotten lucky."

"No, fortunately not. I don't think the secret squirrel thing was really for him, though he was rather good at it. Ever the fan of the more straightforward approach. But he's getting a bit long in the tooth to be kicking down doors, and I think he knows it."

They both turned at the drowsy murmur behind them. Price's eyes remained closed beneath the downturned brim of the boonie hat. "My ears are still in full working order … y' jumped-up … little shit."

"See, mate – he's feeling better already." Armaan stood up. "What do you say we leave him to it, eh?"

"Aye," said MacTavish, deflating the attempt at humor with a look that would have done the Old Man proud. "We'll do that, and then you're going to start talking, _mate_."

* * *

For the first time since he couldn't remember, Price felt warm and comfortable. Nothing hurt. The rain's soothing sound and clean smell had teased him from dreamless slumber, but just barely. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had that, either. One of his favorite indulgences on a rare morning at home was a lie-in like this, listening to the rain, then a nice big breakfast fry-up. The sounds of the rainfall outside his kitchen window and the sizzling frying pan always complimented each other so brilliantly. But a distant unease pulled at him, dragging him from this pleasant unreality. He sat up with a groan, wrinkling his nose. No smells of coffee or bacon. More like musty wool and manure. He was alone. Shit, what time was it?

His head felt fuzzy, but getting up wasn't as bad as it had been. He went into the next room where Armaan looked up from his quiet conversation.

"Where's Soap?" His alarm grew at the look on Armaan's face. Even Ramesh looked sorrowful.

"You'd better go talk to him, John. I wanted to wait until you'd woke up, wait for the right time to tell you both … but there never was a right time."

"For _what?_ " Price's quick strides ended when he rounded the corner, at once terribly aware of what he saw yet unsure of what to say.

Soap stood in the open doorway, his arms at his sides, a shadowy figure staring out into the gray curtain of rain that beat down on him. His soaked clothing clung to his skin. The downpour bounced off him in a spray, his shoulders listing up and down like a ship in a stormy sea.

It was the best Price could come up with. "You know you're not supposed to get the bandages wet."

"Bit late for that." MacTavish's voice was flat, toneless. "Armaan, he told me a few things, like how you two know each other." The puddle around his boots shimmered, water dripping from his fingertips. So that's what you'd been up to after you got back, and what I couldn't get out of you in the pub."

"Next time, try better whiskey. Now what's wrong?" Price unclenched his teeth, waited for it.

"They found them." The look over his shoulder didn't quite reach Price, though he could see Soap's jaws working. "What was left of the 141 in the Caucasus." Price slowly lowered himself onto a wooden bench to hear the rest. "Our guys got to the house first, some of the Increment lads. Bodies everywhere. Makarov's men, ours. Chopper had touched down in the field nearby, big one – like a Pave Low." A sudden indrawn breath. "That's where they found Gary and Simon."

Soap turned, his face now visible in profile. "Both had been shot at close range with a .44." The next words died on his lips; his forehead rumpled as he glanced upward.

"So Shepherd did the honors himself," said Price softly.

"They'd left the jerrycans lying around. Couldn't be arsed to finish what they'd started." Soap's voice began to crack. Price closed his eyes, hung his head for a moment. "They'd thrown them into a shallow pit first, but that was all. Dental records were just a formality, their dog tags were still on, still readable."

Drops swelled and broke from the mohawk's dark wet points plastered to his forehead, streaking down his face. More water brimmed in his eyes as he choked the words out. "If they'd been that much in a hurry, you think Shepherd even gave a shit about whether or not they were dead first, before he - " With a shuddering inhale, the taut line of his lips twisted; another drop rolled down to mix with the rain. Price looked away. "Or maybe his lackeys did that."

"I'm sorry, son." Five years later, the words sounded even more futile to Price, coming from own mouth.

Soap stepped in through the doorway, out of the rain. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, fingers tracing the scar. "And how will they be remembered? _Our_ epitaph, that's one thing. We knew what we were getting into here. But now they're guilty by association, right? After everything, all we've been through - that traitorous _cunt_ , Shepherd - he's dead, and it doesn't change a fucking thing."

"The truth still lives in _us_. As long as we have breath in our bodies, we have the power to change that."

"How? You played right into his hands, mate. He had to be rid of us, and you gave him a way out. Once that missile was in the air, our fates were sealed. Good luck explaining that one. 'Aye, sure, we nuked America – but we're not terrorists, we're just misunderstood!' All I could think of was, what had you done? What had _I_ done?"

"A few times in your life, if you haven't had them already, there will be these … moments. Where everything is clear to you. Crystal. Right, wrong, they don't exist. You know right then what you have to do, then afterward you learn how to live with it."

"That's the real trick, isn't it?" Soap wiped his face again. "Gary's family, his sister - they need to hear about how proud I was of him, how proud they should be. Now I won't get the chance."

"He was a good kid. Reminded me a lot of you, back when you first started."

"And Simon, with no family left to tell." At last, Soap's reddened eyes came in for an accusatory landing. "How does it feel, knowing those were your last words to him?"

Price stared past him at the runoff from the roof, a splashing line in the dirt. "While he might've needed to wind his neck in, he didn't deserve that." He sighed. "It took some doing, to stun you lot into silence."

"He pretended to not give a shit, like always. But you'd gotten to him, I could see it. Nobody had the minerals to say anything, though, not even me. Now I live with that."

"You can't take it back, Soap. I can't take it back. I'm not proud of what I did."

"After all the uncertainty, thinking you were dead … it wasn't exactly the reunion we thought it would be."

A rumble of thunder broke the steady drumbeat of the rain and the constant tapping from a leak in the ceiling. MacTavish was the first to break the long silence. "Hit pretty close to the mark, did he?"

"Yeah, there was no fooling him. Hell, he never trusted Shepherd any more than I did." Price's eyebrows lifted as he paraphrased Simon's words. "'Not fit for command'. He was right, you know. But I wasn't about to let anyone keep me out of the fight, especially not your medic."

Though the angry flare of blue suggested what might come next, it didn't. Silent seconds ticked past in time with the dripping water, until MacTavish surprised Price by switching to an even more unwelcome subject. "All those things you told me, about what they did to you. That wasn't all, was it?"

"No."

"Misha told me something right before I left –"

Price stiffened.

"Said to tell you … it gets easier."

Price exhaled a long slow breath from his nose. "It will. This will."

"And what happens when we get tired of running?"

"Only one way to find out. I'll tell you one thing for free, though." He stood to face Soap, with a resolute shake of his head. "I won't be captured again."

* * *

**_x:x: _x:x:_ _x:x:_ _x:x:_ _x:x:_ _x:x: _x:x: _x:x:_ _x:x:_ _x:x:_ _x:x:_ _x____ **

* * *

_**Pashtunwali**_ **–** [Pashto: پښتونوالی ] "The way of the Pashtuns", a tribal honor code emphasizing ten principles which include sanctuary ( _nanawatai_ ), hospitality ( _melmastia_ ) and vengeance ( _badal_ ).

**SBS –** Special Boat Service

' **Smeato' –** John Smeaton, a former baggage handler at the Glasgow International Airport. Enjoyed 15 minutes of fame in 2007 during a failed terrorist attack by running up to one of the terrorists and kicking him in the groin. When asked for his message to the terrorists in a press interview, replied "This is Glasgow; we'll set aboot ye."

**SRR –** Special Reconnaissance Regiment

**urgentorange-dot-tumblr-dot-com**


	20. Choke Point

Soap jerked his head up with a gasp, wide-eyed, though he hadn't been asleep. His skin crawled and his scalp hurt, like he had the flu. He looked down at his own trembling hand, clenching his fist to make it stop.

It wasn't like they hadn't warned him.

Price sat next to MacTavish in the back seat, looking out the window. To Soap's relief and surprise, he hadn't seemed to notice. By the time they'd all piled into Ramesh's aged white Toyota Corolla, the Old Man was as switched on as ever. Soap wished he could say the same for himself. Now it was all he could do to stay alert. A terrible heaviness weighed on his body; he hadn't felt this exhausted since the day he'd woke up after surgery. Yet he was twitchy as hell, startled like an infant by every rattle and judder of the vehicle.

It had still been the right choice — the _only_ choice. So he had to keep reminding himself.

"So what happens if the wrong people see the Magic Bus parked back at the farm? Ramesh can't hide that from anyone. Is he going to get a bullet in the head for helping us?" Soap asked.

Armaan's eyes found his in the rear view mirror while a few stray raindrops tapped the windscreen. "Probably not, anyone else here would have done the same. He might get a nastygram nailed to his front door, though."

A CD, Arabic script squiggled across it in black marker, hung from the mirror. The car didn't have a CD player. Soap had to stop looking at it, the flashing and swinging back and forth made him feel ill. The car plowed through a deep puddle, slowing down, a tall brown wave fountaining up around them. He gritted his teeth; getting stuck was the last thing they needed. They'd lost several hours as it was.

They wove between some huge potholes. Feeling dizzy from the sudden motion, MacTavish squirmed in his seat. The sore lump on his hip was almost a welcome distraction from the constant pain in his belly. The jab had at least given him a chance to function semi-normally, and if it hadn't been for the delay, it would have worked out fine. But it had been a trade-off, an overdraft of his already meager energy reserves, and had long ceased to keep his discomfort in check. Now every bump in the road made him hope the safe house was around the next bend. There'd been a lot of bends so far — and a lot of bumps.

_By the time the day is done, so are you,_ Misha had told him. _Get to safety as soon as you can. Then pain meds, a sleeping pill and don't plan on going anywhere for at least eight hours. You'll sleep through the worst of it._

That _had_ been the idea, at least. But he'd gambled and lost. He wondered how much worse it was going to get. If they ran into any drama now, he was quite confident that he, John James MacTavish, couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. That, and he'd find out exactly what Price had meant when he'd said he wouldn't be recaptured.

_No. Not going to happen, not because of me. We've come too far. If we die here, then so does the truth. We'll make it; we_ _**have** _ _to, and not just for Simon, Gary and the others. This is bigger than all of us._

_Almost there now._

They heard the river crossing long before they saw it. The slab of concrete traversing the riverbed now lay well out of sight beneath a raging torrent. High muddy waters lapped at the edge of the road, swirling past broken tree branches and other debris. It would have been too risky in the truck, let alone the car.

Armaan sighed. "Right. The long way it is."

* * *

 

Delta had been flattened against the crest of the opposite hill with scopes and binoculars for well over a half hour.

Three hundred meters away, the lone hilltop compound looked deserted. All they could hear was wind, which continued its work on the tattered red, green and black flag flying over what was best described as a fortress. In that respect, it didn't look that different from other homes in the area. Except in this case the high wall was constructed of gray concrete instead of mud brick, with steel gates, razor wire and security cameras. It surrounded a matching two-story structure with narrow, shuttered glass windows.

"It's official — Kamarov's safe house is the worst kept secret in Afghanistan," said Kurt. "The tower, eleven o' clock."

Following his directions, Hagar spied the new addition sitting on the green plastic lawn chair that peeked out along the top the wall: the rucksack with the flag patch, placed there to let them know they were being watched as well. He stood up, squinting, and dusted himself off. "Well gents, let's go down and meet the Brits."

* * *

 

He knew it was just a matter of time before he was rumbled, before he began to look how he felt. Like a bag of shite.

"Soap - look at me."

_Bollocks._

They were the _same rank,_ for fuck's sake. But Price's demanding tone always made MacTavish feel like the FNG all over again. Just as he'd figured, one look was all the Old Man needed.

"Armaan — how much longer?" Price asked.

"While that bridge being out didn't help us, another hour and he'll be tucked up in bed where he belongs," said Armaan. "That means you too, Price."

Soap drew a hand across his forehead, wiping away a fine sheen of sweat, though the temperature inside the car was otherwise comfortable. "Some pair we make, eh? The disabled duo." His jokes were apparently no stronger than he felt; Price didn't seem too impressed with that. Then again, he'd been like an iceberg since they'd left the house, speaking only when he had to.

Armaan had been subdued as well. Not surprising, given the news he'd had to deliver.

The silence merely amplified the echo of what was missing. MacTavish needed some sort of safe, mundane crap to fill the empty space, and quickly, before something else did. Reminders were everywhere, no matter where he looked.

The barren landscape had become more rugged as they'd gained altitude, with more patches of green and the occasional village that looked like piled-up brown matchboxes nestled in the foothills. They'd climbed way up a narrow road skirting the edge of a steep mountainside. More often than he cared to, when Soap looked out the window he could see straight down, watching small stones bounce away into nothingness as they passed, until they shrank out of sight. Beyond that, a deep gorge spread out before him, the surrounding mountaintops still fringed with gray wisps of cloud from the retreating storm.

The last time he'd seen such a view, Roach had been with him.

He remembered how, as he'd finished his cigar, momentarily lost in the smoke and his own musings, he'd sensed that Gary had something on his mind. But the weather had been coming in and they'd needed to get moving, so instead of asking, he'd told him 'break's over'. Now he'd never know what it was.

Against his will, the images were taking shape in his mind, like a horror film that he couldn't stop watching. Gary and Simon lying on the ground in spreading pools of blood, maybe even still moving … the petrol splashing over them, their last breaths stolen by shimmering fumes…

He couldn't shut his eyes tightly enough. _Stop._

He'd spent half the day wishing Armaan would shut up. At this point he'd welcome the insults to his culture, his manhood, the usual — although his ma was still off limits. Bring it on, but say _something_.

He soon regretted it when Armaan started humming. At first it was toneless, under his breath, until the recognizable tune took shape. Cheerful. Catchy.

_Fuck me_.

Soap leaned back against the headrest and rolled his eyes. " _Bad Moon Rising_?" He shot a look into the rearview mirror at him, meeting Price's cool stare. "Really, mate? I hate that shite."

Still no witty comeback. Just a shrug, and Armaan flipped on the radio, twisting the dial through a long line of static until he landed on a crooning male voice and twanging strings.

A groaning duet of annoyance rose from the back seat. "So he cranks up the Bollywood instead. Are you done pissing us about?" asked Soap.

"It's not bloody Bollywood, it's Zahir," Armaan's mumbled reply sounded like it stopped just short of 'you bell-end' — that was more like it.

"Who the hell's that?"

"Afghan Elvis." Armaan turned the dial again. "Hold on – up where we are we just might be able to get the news." He found something faint, an Irish woman's voice.

"Turn it up," said Soap.

" – widespread protests across Europe. France and Germany are expected to follow suit. The last remaining Russian diplomats have been expelled from the United Kingdom in response to both increasing international tensions and last month's death of a Russian Loyalist dissident in London, which the Prime Minister now calls 'a brazen assassination by the usual suspects, the Russian Federal Security Bureau.' Siobhan Cowgory, BBC news."

"There we go," said Armaan.

"Took 'em long enough," said Price.

An English female voice came on. "Breaking news – the man in charge of both the American efforts to defend against the Russian invasion and to track down international terrorist Vladimir Makarov is de –" Both Soap and Price hissed in irritation as the station faded out, but it came back again. " — popular United States Army general was also known for being controversial at times, particularly in his stance regarding female soldiers in special operations roles. Shepherd died when his helicopter crashed in Afghanistan, killing everyone on board. Both the Central Intelligence Agency and the US military have declined to give furth - " At the next curve in the road, the station dissolved into static and didn't return, leaving nothing but the hum of the car and the look shared between Soap and Price at the disinformation being fed to the media. What did it mean, and more importantly, what did it mean for _them_?

The reason for the interference was rising up on Soap's side of the road, which had left the mountain face. Now walls of rock on either side formed a narrow passage — a textbook choke point. Reaching beneath the burkhas draped across their laps to grip the AKs lying alongside their legs, they began to scan the ledges above for threats.

* * *

So far, so good. The rock had reached a sheer height on one side and opened back up on the other to reveal that they were almost down the mountain. "Not long now, eh?" asked Soap, trying not to sound desperate.

Armaan nodded, focused on the sharp curves ahead. "Our pilot will be here tomorrow."

"So Nikolai's done work with you as well?"

"He's a good man to know, him and Kamarov both."

"He's changed a lot, Kamarov," said Soap, feeling a vague sense of unease — the others didn't seem to share his relief at their progress. He looked over at Price. "This isn't the same guy that you let Gaz slap around."

Price gave a bemused grunt. "You can't argue that he deserved it at the time."

"Oh aye. For a bloke who abseils out of helicopters, who'd knew he'd be that afraid of heights?"

"Gaz, apparently." Soap managed a weak smile at that. "Context is everything – Kamarov's not being dangled headfirst out of one, is he? But you're right, he's not the same," said Price, his previously grim demeanor returning.

"I wonder how he and his lads are getting on. The natives have gone way beyond restless. He's going to have to make a move soon," said Soap, hoping to keep the conversation going. "Might not be worth it to hold that bunker much longer, unless he can afford to lose more logistics and manpower to that lot."

"The time was coming, even before last night's attack," said Price. "He told me that they were ready to move forward to the next phase. He asked if we'd join him, you know."

Soap quirked an eyebrow. "What did you say to that?"

"Aside from the obvious reason why not, I told him neither one of us is physically up to the task —"

"Heads up - civilians," Armaan said urgently, turning the radio back on for some background noise to cover their conversation.

Soap and Price hurriedly ducked down to pull their burkhas over their heads. _Just two birds in the back seat, nothing to see here,_ thought MacTavish _._ 'Afghan Elvis' was back on the job, with a seventies-sounding rockabilly number. _Just how old is this shite anyway?_ Come to think of it, that question applied to just about anything in this country.

Up ahead, an elderly man in a white turban and teenage boy stood beside their car, which sagged on its flat left rear tire. Even if it hadn't been in the middle of the road, they still wouldn't have been able to get by them.

Armaan got out and walked over to talk to the pair. Heads bobbed, chests were touched. "Last leg of the journey. Figures," whispered Soap.

Armaan got back in the car after a moment, closing the door to keep out the light but persistent drizzle. He rifled through the glove box, then leaned down next to the door — the car's boot popped open. "What are you doing?" Soap hissed.

"We want this geezer out of the way? We help," said Armaan, getting out again. He soon returned to the stricken vehicle with a jack and some sort of repair kit. Smiles and reassuring nods ensued.

"Price… " Soap fumbled for the words. He didn't know when he'd have another chance. The lace screen less than a foot away and his own hushed voice reminded him of the confessional. "About what I asked you before, about what they did to you … bad timing, mate. I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

Though Price only hesitated for a second, it felt like ages. "I know, lad."

MacTavish worried his lip, his head bowed partly in gratitude to the man who'd arguably become the most important figure in his life, the one he'd followed almost to his death. Twice.

"While I shouldn't have said some of the things I did on the ship, about… " His voice trailing off, Price tried again. "Son, that wasn't what I wanted for you. I couldn't stand by and watch while… " The veil dipped slightly, the Old Man sighed. "It doesn't matter any more."

Something else he couldn't afford to think about. The one good thing about the burkha was that Price couldn't see his face right now.

Soap swallowed, his throat tight. For the umpteenth time, no thanks to his nonexistent peripheral vision from the fucking veil, he had to turn all the way 'round in order to look behind the car. Still nothing there. He prayed it would stay that way … and that his stomach would stop churning. Another charming side effect, one that Misha had failed to mention. Brilliant. The pain and exhaustion were bad enough. He'd been trying to mentally talk himself out of it, but it was no use — the nausea was undeniable now, and threatening to get the better of him.

His anger rose to meet it. They were so close. _If I could find the strength to kill Zakhaev and Shepherd, then I can bloody well keep myself together for a little while longer._

His mouth was starting to water. The point of no return. _Nooo … no no no no no. Not now — NOT now. Deep breaths, mate._ Apart from the more obvious and unpleasant reasons why not, it would be a nice little attention-getter.

Soap couldn't quite make out what Armaan was doing. Meanwhile the boy was looking over at them, tilting his head — probably couldn't see inside the car due to the light reflected on the windscreen. MacTavish shivered, pulling the burkha tighter around himself. "You all right?" Price asked.

"Aye, just shaking like a shitting dog," said Soap. "It's like being in some sort of withdrawal. Here's hoping that medic of his has some anti-sickness meds. I don't mean to be _that_ kid on the school bus, but I'm telling you, if I don't get out of this car soon, I'm going to be one unpopular bloke."

The blue lace panel edged with embroidered flowers turned to him as the boy approached the car. "We're not going to that house."

Now _there_ was another tone Soap knew well. The pain, fatigue and nausea all faded in an instant surge of adrenaline. He opened his mouth to speak but didn't dare — the little bugger now stood just outside his window, staring at them.

* * *

It was like looking in the mirror: a bunch of hirsute well-armed white guys dressed as locals, convincingly enough to make Hagar glad he wasn't downwind. The ends of their woolen shawls rippled behind them in the wind like capes. Hagar and Atticus were sure to approach slowly, no sudden moves, their hands empty. More men stepped into view, looking down at them from the wall. Hagar spotted one wearing padded coveralls beneath the brown folds of his patou, cradling a familiar suppressed rifle, an Accuracy International AWS. Delta used these. So did the SAS.

Giving Hagar a look that said he'd noticed it too, Atticus kept his voice low. "Isn't this usually the point where they start throwing obscene gestures and calling us wankers?"

"Yeah man, I don't like this," said Hagar. "Not even a hello — talk about rude."

The turquoise-painted steel door to the outer wall clanged open. A fair-skinned man with an AK slung over his shoulder stood waiting for them. Wisps of reddish-blond hair stuck out past the olive drab shemagh wrapped around his head. His face was reddened by sun and wind, with the haggard look of someone who'd done a lot of flying recently. "You boys look a bit lost," he said. It sounded like 'lust' — he was from somewhere in Northern England, but that was the extent of Hagar's ear for such things.

"We're looking for someone," said Hagar.

The man shrugged. "I'd say you found 'em."

"Y'all look like you're expecting company," said Atticus, glancing at the men standing over them.

"We are."

Hagar's eyes settled on the thin strips of black plastic poking out of the Brit's tactical vest pocket. "Sounds cozy."

"It is. Too cozy already, I'm afraid." With an apologetic tilt of the head, a thin smile stretched his weatherbeaten, stubbly face, the steely gray eyes unchanging. "No more room at the inn."

* * *

The truck doors slammed shut, the Toyota Landcruiser rocking with the extra weight. "Well, that was awkward," said Hagar. The vehicle's four other occupants looked at him and Atticus expectantly.

"They're about to give them a proper British welcome," said Atticus. "The kind that comes with a cup of tea and a set of flex cuffs."

Kurt's head fell back against the headrest. "Shit."

Mike's face twisted with anger. "So you're telling me that's it? There goes Foghorn Leghorn's 'gold mine of intel'?"

Hagar shook his head. "Oracle says there's a bridge out, just beyond the last village. That left them one way up here. There's still a chance we can get 'em at the pass, it's our last shot." Mike gunned the engine and the truck peeled off in a spray of mud.

* * *

The lad looked about fourteen or so, the shirttails of his gray shalwar kameez hanging down below an unraveling brown cardigan, with the same off-brand trainers that seemed so popular here. 'Little' wasn't quite accurate; he was rangy, almost Price's height, with the gawkiness of a boy who'd hit his growth spurt. His tousled mop of thick wavy hair was a shade darker than his medium brown skin. He peered at them with green eyes — a dark mossy color, not like Armaan's — as if he could see through the lace masks of their burkhas. Beneath the drape of blue fabric, Soap's fingers curved around his AK's wooden grip, then relaxed, but only slightly. While he might be just a kid, the ugly truth was that underestimating a teenage boy had been many a soldier's undoing, especially in places like this. Yet another item on the long list of things one didn't talk about back home at the family barbecue.

Would he try to talk to them? Then what? And what did Price mean, they weren't going to the safe house? Their list of options was pretty damn short. Soap kept his eyes straight ahead, his teeth on edge. _Keep staring why don't you, you little knobhead. That's no way to treat a lady._

Looking disinterested, the boy turned around. They watched him walk back to the car until Soap could finally allow the terse whisper to escape. "What are you on about, Old Man?"

"I won't trade one prison for another."

Soap felt the blood drain from his face. He stared hard at the burkha next to him until Price spoke again.

"Once we're down the mountain, we'll be moving on. Minus one."

Soap nodded toward Armaan. "Does _he_ know that?"

"He'll get over it."

"You really don't trust anyone, do you?"

"Almost. I trust _you_ , I trust Nikolai. For the record, it's not Armaan I distrust so much as the ones he answers to."

"The ones _you_ answered to." Soap nodded slowly. "So what happens to him, then?"

"Earlier you were ready to kill each other, now you're asking?"

The boy had taken a blue snapback from his pocket and had put it on. He and the older man with the white turban crowded around Armaan, watching his progress with the tire.

"He'll wind up in a shallow grave, mate."

"No he won't."

The boy was looking back at them again, leaning to the side to see around White Turban, who glanced over at them also.

"What makes you so su- " Soap froze. Dark blue baseball cap, New York Yankees logo. "Oi - isn't that the kid from the football game earlier?"

Judging by how Price's rifle came up, it certainly was.

The boy reared back, something in his hand, as Soap grabbed his AK. "Aw, fuck!" Armaan collapsed in a heap.

"Behind us!" yelled Price — the wing mirrors were full of armed Afghan men rushing toward them.

Price fired first, pinpoints of daylight punching through the door, hot steel casings pinging around them, the deafening burst dampening the sounds that followed. Soap threw himself down into the seat as an answering volley shattered the windows in a blizzard of sharp green confetti. He'd just squeezed his own trigger when something shiny flew over his shoulder into the front seat.

The hot white flash blew his hair back, pain exploding in his head - he felt the pressure wave blow more glass out of the windows. Blinded, coughing on acrid smoke, he reached out, groping for something to regain his balance. Several pairs of hands grabbed him, wrenching the AK from his grip. The fabric of the veil snapped tight over his face, flattening his broken nose, ratcheting itself around his neck. His hands flew up, heels scrabbling for purchase in the mud, tangled up in the burkha that they were now using to drag him from the car and slam him to the ground.

Several knees pressed into him, pulling the cloth tighter in the process. He thrashed his head around, grunting desperately, trying to breathe. Once they'd bound his hands behind his back and were done searching him, they stood him up and pulled the fabric up over his gasping face. He was immediately confronted by a stocky, dark-eyed Sean Connery lookalike with a salt-and-pepper beard and a gray pakol, who twisted up a handful of Soap's t-shirt and frowned. _"Russ?"_ he demanded.

Staggering, blinking the stars from his eyes, MacTavish could barely hear anything, as if his head were stuffed with cotton wool. Blood trickled hot on his upper lip. In the distance, White Turban and the kid had tied up Armaan, who was starting to come around.

His vision clearing, a flurry of motion caught Soap's eye — Price was introducing himself in typical fashion. One of his three attackers flew backward as the Old Man kicked, punched and headbutted his way out of their grip, the blue veil fluttering to the ground behind him, the blood from his nose reddening his bared teeth. Smoke poured from the car, the interior set ablaze by the stun grenade.

Graybeard shook his blue-and-white striped fist in MacTavish's face, clearly getting pissed off. _"Russ?"_ Dim realization dawned at the muffled word: the _telnyashka_ made the man think he was Russian. Too late - the swift punch to his wounded abdomen folded him in half. " _Russ?"_

Quivering with agony, MacTavish retched.

The men holding him leapt back. Soap sank to his knees, unable to react to the sharp blow to his ear, since he was busy heaving his guts out.

_Wrong answer, I guess._

He'd hardly eaten anything in the past 12 hours. His body was convinced he'd just gone overboard at Planet Buffet.

Every muscle seized in another painful contraction, but nothing was coming up any more. The ground was tilting, his vision darkening at the edges. They hauled him back to his feet, grunting with the effort it took to keep him upright — they were half his size, and getting angrier by the second. His legs felt like jelly; he couldn't help it. Not at first, anyway. _Fuck 'em, make 'em work for it._

Just past the disgusted face of Graybeard, Soap could see that Price had gotten the upper hand on his mates. While the other two waved their guns at him, he had the third in a headlock with an AK-74 stuck in his temple. Price was bright red, veins bulging in his forehead and neck, screaming at them – issuing an ultimatum. Soap's captors joined in. Everyone was screaming at each other, not a word of it understandable.

Everyone except Graybeard, an island of serenity in a sea of chaos. Turning his back on the hostage crisis, he held up a hand. At a word from him, his boys stopped shouting and half cut, half ripped the shirt off MacTavish.

The man looked pleased at what he saw once they'd torn the bandages away. With a backward glance at Price, he gave a nod and another brief order. They pushed MacTavish down onto his back, one man for each limb. Making damn sure that Price could see it, Graybeard drew his knife and squatted down next to Soap.

The bastard was about to perform some surgery of his own.

Snarling, MacTavish struggled. _Just let me get one arm free, the rest will follow — I'll tear you cunts to fucking pieces._

Under normal circumstances, he could have done just that. Except now he could barely move. He was too weak to fight them off. All the will in the world wasn't enough. He was theirs without question, to do with as they pleased.

Just like before. A vivid flashback of Shepherd plunging the knife into his belly.

Graybeard leaned in with his own blade. From the looks of things, it wasn't going to be that simple.

"Fuck!" Spittle flew from between MacTavish's teeth; he strained against them with all his might. " _Fuck_ you — fucking _bastards_ — " His bare skin twitched at the icy bite of the steel — the man burrowed the hooked tip under one of the taut loops of black thread holding the long incision closed.

A twist and a pull. _Pop._

He squirmed and bucked, to no effect.

_Pop._

The rage in Price's face was dissolving into horror, his mouth echoing Soap's own shouts, though it still didn't penetrate the white hum in MacTavish's head.

_NO…_

_Pop._ The edges of the skin sprang apart, shiny red beneath. The sound Soap felt himself making was something between a grunt and a howl.

Price's captive pulled away from him as he lowered his weapon, a hand outstretched as if to stop the grisly scene unfolding in front of him. Graybeard noted this, then calmly turned back to his task.

_SOAP…_

_Pop._ Blood welled up, trickling out of the reopened wound. But his captors weren't looking at MacTavish; they were watching Price as their fellows tore the rifle from his hands.

_STOP…_

Price's hands went up, in surrender and a plea. The defeated look in his eyes was more than Soap could bear. The man who'd rather die than give in was doing just that — because of him.

The swarm of hostile faces closed in, the recaptured AK-74 pointing at Price. It spun in the grip of the man it had been taken from, lashing out, quick and cruel.

Price sprawled face first into the mud with a brown splash.

Then the hood came down.


	21. Gone Native

By the time Delta reached it, the pillar of smoke had dwindled, the car a blackened, crackling husk. No one else was around, though there were signs of a scuffle. Recent tire tracks from another vehicle, footprints from at least five men — and they'd been busy. Plenty of 7.62 bullet casings lay scattered among drag marks trailing from the car. Two items of clothing lay rumpled and forgotten in the rough, unpaved road.

While Atticus examined the shredded remains of the first, a blue striped Russian undershirt, Hagar stooped down to retrieve the second. He sighed, looking up at his XO. "Looks like they had worse things than us waiting for them." Muddy water dripped from the boonie hat in his hands.

Like the shirt, it was stained with blood.

* * *

His time beneath the hood was a painful disorienting blur of stifling darkness, one long enough for MacTavish to recall the last time he'd worn one during SAS selection, along with every man he'd put one on.

His ears still rang, though not as badly. He'd heard nothing except the men in the room. No sounds of traffic, no calls to prayer.

The hood's removal felt like a rebirth. He sucked in a deep lungful of fresh air, shivering, his skin and hair damp with sweat. Once again, he was lying on his back at gunpoint. His eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room, he zeroed in on the sources of what he'd just heard: the jingle of the keys unlocking his cuffed hands in front of him, the crackle of paper-wrapped medical supplies. A blue-eyed Asian-looking bloke sat alongside him, pulling disposable gloves on. When he caught sight of the bed directly opposite his, Soap's stomach dropped. "Price?" he croaked, his mouth bone-dry.

Like him, Price was handcuffed and shackled, but it was unnecessary; he didn't stir or open his eyes. His hat was gone, his head wrapped in a wide bandage. Streaks of dried blood trailed down the back of his neck, his shirt collar stained a dark reddish-brown. MacTavish's breath caught until he saw the shallow rise of Price's chest.

"Price? Wake up."

Had he been unconscious since they were taken? That was a bad sign. What else had these twisted fuckers done to him? While it didn't appear that they'd beaten him any further, the condition he'd already been in made it somewhat difficult to tell. Numerous scabs, bruises and his split lip stood out in dark relief against his pale face. Curiously, they'd propped him up with some rolled up carpets and folded blankets.

Graybeard's boys closed in on Soap, blocking his view while they unlocked the cuffs, chaining one of his hands to the frame of the crude wooden bed, leaving the other free. The frame had a D-ring mounted to it for that very purpose, and MacTavish had a sinking feeling that it hadn't been installed especially for them. This lot weren't new at this, that much was obvious. There wasn't a hint of nerves among them. Their weapons and kit were in good order, no off-brand trainers here. A variety of unpleasant motives came to mind. In this region, kidnapping wasn't a crime so much as a business model, one as popular with so-called legitimate governments as it was in the underworld. Hell, organ trafficking wasn't unheard of.

He struggled to sit up, trying to see around them. The muzzle of an AK loomed in front of him, close enough to smell burnt gunpowder. Soap lay back down, and it retreated to a safer distance. His eyes darted back and forth between Price's motionless form and what their 'medic' was doing, with increasing concern at both. "Price? Oi - come on… "

Price cracked his eyes open, his voice a drowsy slur. "Soap?"

"About time, Old Man."

Price turned his head slowly, focusing on MacTavish with some difficulty. "You almost sound … worried."

"I am. I really think he might have damaged his rifle butt."

Price chuckled weakly. "A distinct … possibility." He coughed and grimaced, wrinkling the puffy flesh around his blackened eye, now a mottled palette of purplish-green, brown and yellow.

"You look like a modern artwork, mate."

"Speak … for yourself… "

MacTavish took a quick inventory. They were in a mud hut, the windows shuttered, lit with paraffin lamps. A striped woolen blanket hung in a doorway leading to another room. This one was stacked with wooden munitions crates, plastic storage boxes of various sizes; field rations, dried and tinned food. There was plenty of water, in big clear plastic jugs and individual bottles, bundled and shrink wrapped. Several other beds of the same type were scattered about: four wooden spindles around a simple frame woven with rope to suspend a thin mattress. He recognized their remaining possessions piled in the corner. All of the Magnificent Seven were still on scene, Price's former hostage still looking rather pissed off. He was one of the three surrounding Price's bed.

The medic leaned over his bare torso, pulling off a bloodstained bandage that had been hastily applied at some point, examining his wounds. They looked all right except for the oozing red gap left by the missing sutures.

The blanket swept aside, Graybeard striding into the room to observe the goings-on. He lifted his bushy dark eyebrows with a shake of his head and some bemused-sounding Pashto.

The medic nodded with a huff, seeming to agree.

What would this hostile stranger, his level of medical expertise unknown, do next? Soap couldn't control his trembling, or his breathing. He hated the thought that these wankers would take credit for it. _Bloody hell, I never should have let Misha give me that shite._

The appearance of the vial and syringe didn't help matters.

The big man squatted down next to him, regarding him in oppressive silence. The wide fluted edges of his rolled up gray pakol hat reminded MacTavish of a piecrust. His hair and beard were more salt than pepper, his rough forehead etched with crooked lines from decades of bright sun and hardship. The deep creases framing his face and the droop of his jowls gave him a sad, careworn look, but his sharp gaze told you otherwise. Broad shoulders strained the fabric of his green Russian fatigue jacket, the maroon and white striped silk scarf coiled around his neck seeming an indulgence against his otherwise plain attire. When he finally spoke again, giving him an exasperated look, Soap almost swore in surprise.

"Are you going to let him sew that back up or not?"

MacTavish gave a terse nod, watching the medic take aim with the long thin needle. The man's gravelly accent, as unexpected as his English, made Soap's heart sink even further. _Fuck me. Fuck us both._

"You're Russian," said Soap, wincing at the pinch and burn of the local anesthetic. If they were who he thought they were, then why bother with any of this?

But Grach had patched up Price, hadn't he?

" _Haoh —"_ Graybeard caught himself. _"_ Yes _,_ I was. You were in a hurry, to be running around like this. Too soon for your own good. But good for us. Big man like you," He nodded at the medic. "My son says they took you down as easily as a child."

MacTavish's face burned, the truth of it a far greater agony than the cramped, throbbing misery in his belly. He wasn't sure if Price was still dazed or merely impassive, but either way, he wouldn't meet his eyes. Soap wished he would. If nothing else, to deliver the withering stare he deserved. With only a few more miles between them and Kamarov's safe house, they'd been captured. His fault. He'd slowed them down, made them vulnerable.

That wasn't all. "The other man that was with us, where is he?"

Ignoring the question, the Russian studied him for a moment, frowning at MacTavish's sweaty, shaky appearance. "What's wrong with you?" He spoke to one of the Afghans, who began rooting through their bags. Behind his back, Soap saw Price's lips form the word _was_ before the thrown pill vial rattled into the man's hand.

Graybeard pulled out a pair of reading glasses, squinting at the label. "He is no longer your concern, or mine." He looked over his glasses at Soap, rather like a disapproving grandfather. "When was the last time you took one of these?"

"This morning."

"Then it's time. Here," he handed MacTavish a pill while the medic set to work on closing Soap's wound. He seemed to know what he was doing. His _son_? They looked nothing alike.

"What do you mean, not my concern?" Soap asked, watching one of his men pour a cup of water. Thank fuck. The dingy white plastic cup might as well have been a crystal goblet of fine wine.

The Russian took the cup, sloshing it around a little. "Thirsty, are you?" He took a noisy drink. "Yes, very thirsty." He pulled it away when MacTavish reached for it. "So put that pill in your mouth. Now."

Struggling to keep his temper in check, MacTavish obeyed. The water was warm and tasted like the plastic jug — it was delicious. He swallowed hard. The thick antibiotic pills were difficult to get down under normal circumstances, without thinking about Armaan's fate. Christ, he hoped he was wrong about that. London upbringing or not, many Afghan militants took a dim view of blokes like Armaan who worked with Western forces, and often made gruesome examples of those who did.

The old git wouldn't refill the cup until he took one of the painkillers. "You were ready to gut me on the road, now you're playing nursemaid?" Soap asked.

Graybeard shrugged, putting his reading glasses back into his pocket. "I had a point to make, I made it," he said. He lifted his chin as his medic's hands twirled and pulled the thread taut. "It's only the top layer, looks worse than it is. And don't think that I won't still gut you, or take a finger as proof, except you're worth more with all your parts still intact."

"Right, so this is — "

"Business. There's more than one interested party."

Price was now fully alert, hanging on every word, breathing a little harder than before.

"Interested in what? New talent for their latest Internet snuff film?" Those fucking cunts. Armaan might have been every bit the pain in the arse that he promised, but he didn't deserve to have his head sawn off on YouTube. "Is that what you did with him?"

"I told you… " Graybeard knelt back down next to MacTavish's bed. His voice softened. Calm, matter-of-fact. " …now you're testing my patience." The knife came out to rest below Soap's unscarred right eye.

* * *

With a screech of brakes, they were pulling him out of the vehicle and onto his feet, steering him along in blind steps. Chatting and joking to one another, when they weren't jeering at him. Except for that and the idling engine, Armaan couldn't hear anything else. Only wind.

They'd made it clear they weren't interested in a damned thing he had to say. He was past fear; he was numb, focused on one final task: to at least die like a man.

Although with this lot, he might yet well go out like a woman.

On your knees, a voice behind him ordered in Pashto. The kick from behind came before he could comply. A shove put him down onto his face.

_Here it comes._ Armaan coiled like a spring. He didn't stand a chance, but he didn't want to die badly.

Amid laughter, they tugged at his bound wrists, which suddenly came apart. The blindfold yanked his head back and came off. Doors slammed; gravel stung him as the Hilux sped away.

He stood up slowly, in disbelief. The relief came next, boiling out of him in panting breaths and trembling legs.

He mastered himself and looked around. Not a soul, a house, or a wisp of smoke in sight. Just open sky, rolling dun-colored hills, and a setting sun.

He started walking.

* * *

The razor-sharp blade sat on the crest of MacTavish's cheekbone, ready to break the skin if he so much as twitched, the tip so close to his naked eye that he didn't dare blink.

"I could make them match, though I can't promise you'd ever be able to use it again," said Graybeard. "Or… " He flicked his gaze in Price's direction. "I could make _his_ match instead. I don't think it would affect my fee either way."

Soap pursed his lips, forcing himself to look up from the blurry steel. "All right, all right. I'm sorry. I'm — "

The staccato bursts of sharp consonants and grinding R's bordered on contempt: "O positive. Two-zero-seven-three-five-two-one. John MacTavish. _British_ Army. Roman Catholic."

A photographic memory. Having just had his dog tag's contents recited to him in order, MacTavish chose his next words with care. "What can I call you?"

Sheathing his knife, the Russian stood, sounding disinterested already. "They call me Agha Vadim," he said as he disappeared into the next room, the knife's sensation lingering on MacTavish's cheek.

All finished, the medic applied a clean dressing and helped him into a fresh linen tunic, a long buff-colored Afghan _salwar._ Rifles, bearing witness at the low ready, were never far away. After locking him back up in his handcuffs, the young man left, following his father. His mates remained where they were, seated but otherwise on guard.

This was as close to alone as he and Price were going to get. "What do you think, ex-Red Army? He's the right age for it. A deserter, maybe?" MacTavish asked in a low voice.

Price stared at the ceiling. "Or a captive. The Soviets didn't discriminate. Remember, in those days the thing to do was defect to the West. Former POWs were viewed with suspicion, accused of being deserters. Didn't make for much of a homecoming."

"Must have made it easier for the Inner Circle to gain a foothold here, men like this … Agha." MacTavish clamped his teeth together, avoiding the name they both dreaded. They'd be hearing it soon enough, when they were all together at last.

' _Til death do us part._

"Agha's not his first name," said Price, his flat tone and expression indicating he thought the same thing.

"How do you know?"

"It means 'mister'. In other words, we're to address him as 'sir'."

A sharp word in Pashto barked out at them from the shadows, no translation needed. It was the same prick who'd struck Price with the rifle butt.

Price ignored him. "Makarov's an 'interested party' for sure, if not this bastard's handler."

MacTavish let his head fall back. It was even worse hearing the Old Man say it. His eyes flew open to the sound of quick footsteps that put the wiry bearded fighter between them. The chains snapped taut when he tried to sit up, as the Afghan slapped Price stoutly across the face.

Price grunted and sputtered as the man turned to lean over MacTavish, wagging a finger. Their conversation was over.

* * *

_The greatest gift of leadership is the trust you earn, from those who would follow you into Hell if you asked them. The greatest curse is when you wind up leading them there._

_So where are we now?_

Soap was asleep, finally. Price had watched his eyes glaze over, watched him fight it until Price had given him a small nod, to interpret as he saw fit. Permission. Forgiveness, if that's what he needed. Both were granted. Even before the words had left his mouth, the lad had known damn well that Price would never leave him behind.

You never left anyone behind. Though Soap would be better off now if he'd had. Handcuffed to a more comfortable bed, at least.

Price envied him this moment of peace and forgetfulness, even if it _was_ chemically induced. He needed to gather what strength he had left — they both did — for what was to come.

Despite all their efforts, Shepherd's lie had already taken on a life of its own. As they'd heard on the radio broadcast, the cover-ups had started. Now, after everything they'd been through, it was back to square one. His rescue, their going on the run, Soap barely surviving their confrontation with Shepherd … and after that, evading both murderous local paramilitaries and the vengeful Americans. For all the good it had done them, it was as if Price had never escaped the fortress at Petropavlosk. He'd thought nothing could be worse than being back in the hands of Makarov, but he was wrong.

Now Soap would suffer alongside him.

_I won't allow it. I can't._

Though he'd stopped shivering, Soap still looked ill. He didn't belong outside a hospital, much less being dragged halfway across Afghanistan. Price wasn't doing much better. He could barely lift his head without feeling dizzy. Squaring off against eight healthy opponents was out of the question.

Plan B, then. It would be during the handoff, or never.

He could hear a familiar voice in his head, the one he always heard in the rare moments when he questioned himself. MacMillian.

_How far are you willing to go, John?_

He kept some of their limited options buried deeply enough that he didn't entertain them, not yet.

He strained all of his senses to the limit, gathering information. About half of their captors were snoring, curled up on the wooden beds, while the others kept watch. The glasses of hot green tea in their hands said they weren't going to be drowsy anytime soon. As _pashtunwali_ dictated, they'd offered him some to their guest — which he was, prisoner or not. Recalling what happened the last time, Price had refused, offending them. He didn't give a monkey's.

Vadim stepped back inside the room, clapping another blue-eyed dark haired Afghan on the shoulder, speaking softly to him. The man responded by bedding down for the night.

Ignoring Price, the Russian sat down next to a paraffin lamp. He put on his reading glasses and pulled a paperback book from his pocket. When he opened it, a photograph fluttered down to the floor next to Price's bed. The dark-haired, pale-eyed Afghan girl looked 18 at the most. The picture was old, faded. Vadim rose and snatched it up, looking at it for a moment before pressing it back between the pages.

"Your woman?" Price asked.

With an affirmative grunt, Vadim settled back down again with the book, opening it more carefully this time. _**Пикник на обочине**_ — whatever that was. The dog-eared cover suggested some sort of science fiction or fantasy novel.

"Was that before or after you went native?"

Vadim didn't look up. He turned a page.

"Or was she the turning point, when you realized you couldn't go home anymore, because it wasn't your home any longer?"

"Are you speaking from experience?" Vadim rumbled, looking over the edge of his glasses before returning his attention to his book.

"Where is she now?"

The words rode out on a heavy sigh. "Just … stop." The Russian shook his head at Price, as if he'd heard it all before. "It doesn't become you."

He returned to his book, while Price returned to his thoughts, turning his head slowly to avoid any dizzy spells. He could still taste blood from when he'd dribbled it on himself; that twat had dealt him a fair backhand. He ran his tongue around his mouth, taking stock of the damage so far. He wanted to be able to remember what having his teeth felt like.

The only silver lining of it was, in the state they were in, neither of them would last long.

Makarov thought Price had been the one to kill his mentor. What would he do to Soap when he found out that it was, in fact, him that had put down Zakhaev?

Closing his eyes for a moment, Price turned back to Vadim. Not that it would do any good.

"Look, I'm the one you want."

Not the slightest flicker of interest. "Are you?"

"Just leave him out of it, all right? I'm the one that did it."

A turn of the page. "Did what?"

"I'm the bastard that slotted him."

Vadim couldn't have sounded more bored if he tried. "Who?"

"Your esteemed leader, for fuck's sake!" That earned Price a raised eyebrow over the edge of the book. "Imran Zakhaev. The genocidal Ultranationist toerag with a bloody airport named after him and pigeons shitting on his statue in Red Square. Because of _me_ , and let me tell you something, mate. No matter what happens, no matter what you do to me, I'll die a happy man knowing I put him in the ground. Makarov can – "

The book flipped down into Vadim's lap. He uncrossed his leg, his boot hitting the ground with a _thump._ His face morphed into an expression of utter disgust, the dark eyes drilling into Price, who braced himself.

" _Makarov_? You think this is about him?" Vadim scoffed. " _Shazzuna._ He and his men are long gone. He was smart to leave this country, though if he returns again, he might not."

Price felt like the wind had just been knocked out of him, and the Russian hadn't lifted a finger.

"Now let me tell _you_ something … _Price._ We know exactly who you are, what you've done, and thanks to your friend's shirt, who you've been keeping company with. We know who's after you, and what it's worth to them." He shook his head. "You have nothing left to bargain with. There aren't any gold coins in your belt this time. So shut up and go to sleep, before I have Bilal knock you out again."

Price couldn't argue with those facts, and Mr. Rifle Butt looked more than happy to oblige. Utterly exhausted, he sagged back into the pile of dirty blankets, thankful for their propping him up. It relieved some of the pressure in his pounding head, made it easier to breathe against the painful grind of his broken ribs. He squirmed, trying to avoid the tender goose egg over the base of his skull; old Bilal had really given him the good news. His eyes rolled closed of their own volition, unable to see straight anymore. Once the captive surroundings faded away, his relief over Makarov dueled with dread of the possibilities, until he eventually fell into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Tied up, hooded again, bumping around in the back of some pick-up truck in the pre-dawn hours. Par for the course, really. There was far too much overhead surveillance to keep them in one place for long, and with the Interpol Red Notice on them, their captors weren't taking any chances. No shortage of punters out there looking. The NDA, the Yanks, his own government…

_So who's the lucky winner then, eh?_ Price wondered. _Who's got my sodding hat?_

… _and who gets the grand prize?_

He lurched back and forth into the men beside him, who grunted and shoved him away. The road was brutally rough, but speed was the main thing they were interested in. A few times, his head almost hit the truck's roof. Between the insults to his ribs and his head, Price had trouble keeping silent.

When they ground to a halt and the loud blaring Afghan music stopped, Price heard Soap moaning in pain as they manhandled him out of the second vehicle. A few of those escaped him as well. It was a way of letting him know they were still together. At this point, it wasn't much of an act.

They were marched into some building, down a few steps to cool musty dampness. Livestock, paraffin and machine oil smells. Forced down into chairs, hands tied behind them.

Then came the waiting.

The hoods stayed on. This wasn't just a move to another safe house. Was this to be the actual handoff? A proof-of-life video shoot?

Summary execution?

He thought of the poor bastards the 141 had liberated on the oil rig, and all the others like them over the years. The uncertainty was the worst part. Bound, blind, voiceless, left with nothing but time to wonder if they'd live or die.

Now certainty, that's what set you free.

The same voices chatting, cigarette smoke. A drink of water. More waiting. New discomforts. The flexcuffs cutting into his wrists, his arse going numb. The ache in his shoulders worsening, a parting gift from his stay with the Ultranationalists.

He had to put it out of his mind, all of it. _Almost showtime._ _Just don't hold out for an encore._

Then it occurred to him: for someone who'd adapted to this culture and spoke Pashto as a primary language, Vadim's English was excellent.

Price startled at the door opening, several pairs of boots stomping down the steps, new voices jabbering away in Pashto.

"Vadim!" Sounds of backslaps and handshakes. " _Asalaam alaikum_." The distinctly American drawl made him groan.

_Of course._

The man behind him wrenched Price's head back, the hood's rough fabric scraping up over his face just before a camera's flash blinded him. "Cheese!" sang one of the Afghans. A low chuckle emanated from above Price, threatening to become a full-on belly laugh. The wide grin was the first thing to materialize from the sea of red spots, like Carroll's Cheshire Cat.

Price blinked rapidly, bringing the wavy gray hair and the rest of the sunburned boyish face into view.

Buzz smirked down at them. "Well fuck me running. Ain't this just a kick in the ass."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

_**Asalaam alaikum**_ [Arabic] _–_ "Peace be upon you."

**Пикник на обочине (** _ **Piknik na obochine**_ **)–** _Roadside Picnic,_ a science fiction novel by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Written in 1971 and heavily censored by the Soviets at the time. The basis for the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. video game series, among other things.

_**Shazzuna**_ [Pashto] – 'women'.


	22. The Right Horse

Price sagged in his chair, not knowing whether to be relieved, alarmed or merely disgusted. _Should've bloody well known._

"Who the … the _fuck_ — " Soap looked more pissed off than anything. "Price, is this - ?"

Price nodded, wincing, wishing he hadn't. His pounding head felt like it was about to roll off his shoulders.

"Mmm, mmm, mmm," Buzz shook his head, tut-tutting at them. "As popular as ever, I see."

"Just cut us loose, you twat," said Soap.

"And just as charming." Buzz unfolded his knife, admiring the view. Such moments weren't meant to go unsavored, any of the Regiment or 141 lads would have done the same. For a second, things felt almost normal. "How're ya doing, MacTavish?" While Rev went for Soap's, Buzz set to work on Price's flex cuffs. "To think that just last week you nearly bought the farm. Now you're out seeing the sights, making new friends... "

"Ones on your payroll, it seems," said Price.

"In a manner of speaking. Lucky for you."

"You call that lucky?" MacTavish jerked his head toward the door. The Afghans had just left.

"Oh, Vadim. Yeah, he's a little _different_ , I'll give you that. Being left for dead by your teammates and saved by your enemies can do that to a guy. But hey, he zipped you back up didn't he?" Rubbing his wrists, Soap scowled up at him. "Guess that means you've met the kids. Well, they're not technically his - long story." After some tugging and a sharp snap of cut plastic, Buzz stood with a grunt. "We were the highest bidder. Shows we care," he gave them a lopsided grin. "Needless to say, around here, running into the wrong people could be seriously problematic."

"And you lot are the right ones?" Price hissed at the protest from his past shoulder injury as he brought up his newly-freed hands. He carefully touched the back of his head, trying to gauge how much of the lump was from the bandage and how much of it was swelling.

Eyeing the collection of old and new ligature marks on Price's wrists, Buzz's smirk fell away. "More than you know." He looked over at Rev. "Why don't you go pay the man, we'll just gonna sit here and talk for a while."

Rev lifted the frayed red baseball cap from his head to run a hand through his stringy blond hair, assessing the situation before pulling the cap back down backward again. The laughing skull on the front of it grinned at them as the door opened and closed, leaving the three of them alone.

A fluttering overhead caught Price's attention. Birds in the rafters were making their own hasty exit through a hole in the roof, fleeing into the dawn. This wasn't another mud hut. They were sat on folding metal chairs, surrounded by crumbling brick marked with the Cyrillic graffiti of young soldiers who'd never imagined these lewd caricatures would be their final contribution to the world. The room was large enough to accommodate a vehicle or two, though one end had been partially caved in. Automotive and other rubbish lay about, mixing into the scattered bricks and broken timber that framed patches of sky. Weeds were sprouting up in corners, tree roots pushing their way through the walls. Part of some old Soviet outpost, its once modern, alien architecture now being slowly consumed by the timeless surroundings, like a transplanted organ that had been rejected.

Buzz shrugged the duffel bag off his shoulder. Lowering its sagging weight to the floor, he reached inside. The bottles of water he handed them weren't piss-warm, at least. Taking one for himself and settling down on a pile of dull green Russian ammo crates, long since plundered of their contents, he sighed. "I don't think you need me to tell you just how much trouble you boys are in."

Gulping the cool water, Price came up for air. "So we've heard."

"In case you haven't figured it out by now, all wouldn't have been peaches and cream if you'd actually made it to Kamarov's safe house."

No, it wouldn't have. Price never had the chance to explain Armaan's subtle warnings or his own suspicions — it had all happened too quickly. Now he felt the quiet demand of Soap's gaze behind him.

"We're listening," said MacTavish.

"MI6 had a team there to scoop you up all right, except the mission profile changed midstream, from exfil to capture." Buzz held up a hand as Soap's face contorted with anger. "But don't hold that against Armaan. His intentions _were_ true at first, thought he could spirit you away while the NDA still had our pants down." He took a long drink, ending in a satisfied swallow. "Boy owes me one - I got him off the hook."

"Is that a new term for dead?" Soap asked.

"MacTavish, didn't you mother ever tell you that if you kept making that face, it would freeze that way?" A lift of eyebrows. "Too late, I guess. Armaan is very much alive. Rather footsore and pissed off by now, I expect. I have been assured they didn't mess up his pretty face too much." He shrugged at Price, his brief hint of an uncomfortable smile some form of half-arsed apology. "It's an ugly business sometimes."

"Mmm," Price was unmoved. "Isn't it just."

"I suppose you're wondering how we found you in the first place. It's just one of things, you know. We happened to be … around _._ Doing some work with our mutual friends." He waved a hand back and forth. "A little of this, a little of that. Well, when a _nuke_ goes off, you can bet your ass there'll be a briefing. A major one. We were told to report to the Station Chief in person, wheels up within the hour. Every spy agency on the planet had a packed conference room _that_ day."

Buzz stared at them both for a moment, his uncharacteristic seriousness disquieting. "As soon as all eyes were on him, your CO was quick to throw you two under the bus."

"We'll do our best to look surprised," said Price.

"Yet he kept you both in play."

"Funny how that is," said Soap.

Daylight pierced the gloom with Rev's return. He took a seat on a steel worktable welded together from scrap, sheer weight explaining its presence in a room that had been otherwise picked clean of anything useful. He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his vest. With a _flick_ , a puff of smoke rolled forth, prompting Buzz to continue. "We'd just come out of the briefing, went to grab some chow before heading back to Afghanistan. We hadn't even left the wire yet when we got RUMINT of _another_ incident involving Shepherd's Task Force 141, this time near the Georgio-Russian border. Brits were being tight-lipped about it for some reason. Then, as if life weren't interesting enough, we were on the way back when we had to divert. An American helo had just fallen out of the sky, not far from a base of his.

"An asset of ours called it in, the smoke could be seen for miles. Bodies everywhere. It was Shepherd's _other_ guys, Shadow Company. Not everyone was dead though, one of 'em was still hanging on. Former frogman by the name of Elias. Knew he didn't have long, and told us not to try bullshitting him about it either. Had a few things he wanted to get off his chest. Said he'd fucked up, but that he didn't want to to be his last act. That's when we found out why the boys at Vauxhall Cross hadn't been quite so forthcoming.

"He told us about what happened up in the mountains, how the mission went pear shaped. How Shepherd had suddenly declared y'all hostile, but ordered his team to continue with the extraction anyway, and set down in one very hot LZ to pick up the 141's two surviving shooters."

Buzz paused, taking in their stony expressions. "The good General went down the ramp to greet them. Only one was still on his feet, the other was in a bad way — his buddy had just dragged him out of the kill zone. But that wasn't Shepherd's biggest concern. He wanted to be sure they'd met their objective, which they had. As soon as they handed over the goods, he shot 'em both point blank. Ordered Elias and the others to burn the bodies," he said, showing no pleasure at the reaction that Soap and Price were unable to contain.

"Then when you two showed up at Hotel Bravo, he called in a fire mission on his own men. Told them their 'service would be honored'. If that's not a guy with a few skeletons in his closet, I don't know what is."

More cigarette smoke unfurled before Rev broke the heavy silence. "By this point, Elias was having trouble speaking. Said something about drowning, how he thought they were dead. That's all we could get out of him before the medics pushed us out of the way."

"There was an overturned Zodiac at the river's edge, with a couple sets of prints coming _from_ the river," said Buzz. "They led to the body of Shepherd himself — with a knife in his eye, no less. I thought, someone _does_ have a flair for the dramatic," he looked back and forth between them. "But who?

"Judging by all the empty wrappers and the large red stain on the sand, someone rather short on time, " said Rev. "The answer was either back at Kamarov's base or beneath the nearest flock of buzzards. Only ones we saw were the ones overhead. So back to the bunker we went, and sure enough, Misha had himself two new patients. Their surgeon's pretty good." He glanced at MacTavish. "You're living proof of that."

"That wasn't the only knife found at the scene. " _Per Mare Per Terram –_ neither of you were in the Royal Marines, I'm sure there's an interesting story there." Buzz reached into the duffel beside him. "But a local found something even more interesting in the river. One phone call later… " He held up a plastic bag in Price's direction. "I believe this is yours." He turned the bag, examining the 1911 within, steel glinting through worn black. "Poor old Colt. Rode hard and put away wet," he chuckled, shaking his head at Price. "Kinda like you these days."

"You weren't planning on coming back, were you? When you went after him?" Rev's pale eyebrows arched at calculating angles. He inhaled, turning his head to blow his smoke in the other direction. "We'd been watching him for a while, you know. Kamarov isn't the only reason we're out here, let's just put it that way."

"Do tell," said Price.

"Long before he started doing his Colonel Kurtz thing out in the desert with his private army of rejects, things didn't smell quite right with Shepherd."

Price thought Soap might fall off his chair. " _Rejects_ , is it?" MacTavish jabbed a finger at the CIA men. "Fought any of 'em lately? These were no amateurs, mate. Word was that he paid well, lured some of the best away from their units."

"Off the books of the regular military. Disposable, deniable, with no press waiting back home for a flag-draped casket that would never come," said Price.

"I don't know about the _best_ ," said Buzz. "Salary was competitive, sure. But the main qualification for Shadow Company, besides being a top tier door kicker, was that other teams didn't want your sorry ass anymore. That was at least true of the ones he kept closest to him, like Elias."

"The old standby," said Price. "Difficult enough, once you've run with the lions, to be left standing amongst the lambs. But if it's not by choice _…_ word gets around, and why. No decent outfit will take you on if they've heard you're a muppet. So the blokes with darker secrets than that - something for Shepherd to hold over their heads? Perfect for the dirtier jobs."

"Like topping British soldiers," said MacTavish.

"I'd like to say Elias is our witness, but he didn't last the flight back to Bagram," said Buzz. "However, there's one more thing we found in the wreckage." The next plastic bag held a oblong white plastic box with a thick antenna, somewhat resembling a wireless network access point. Price's chest tightened. Scorched and partially melted, it was the last thing he expected to see.

It was the DSM.

* * *

 

They were barely out of sight of the CIA and their bearded special operations men, a good deal richer than they'd been a mere 15 minutes ago. Normally, they'd take their money, disappear for a while, and resurface later for a new job. Just like he'd taught them. This time was different. He'd known as soon as he'd seen the man with the punk rock hair, his British Paratrooper's _Utrinque Paratus_ tattoo an odd mismatch with the Russian _telynashka_ he wore. So the rumors _were_ true.

Vadim understood his adopted son's concern. Though it suited him as the team's medic, Mirwais had always been the worrier of the two, needing occasional reassurance. Knowing this, his brother Marjan had stayed back with the others, waiting patiently by the trucks.

Standing near the mountainside's edge, they looked over the nearly endless panorama spread out before them, the distant peaks tall gray battlements of a kingdom ruled by no one. He'd used this place before. The rock curving at their backs would interfere with attempts at surveillance, which he always had to assume were there. After removing the SIM card and snapping it in half, Vadim flung the phone as hard as he could into the expanse.

"They want to avoid endangering their relationship with the Americans, we want to make money. It's simple. We know what routes they must take. There's a window of opportunity here, but it is narrow."

"They won't go for it," said Mirwais.

Vadim's face warmed with a calm smile. "Of course they will."

* * *

"This was it, wasn't it? The objective. Was this what the 141 was sent to retrieve from Makarov's place in the mountains?" asked Buzz.

The DSM. Price had thought it gone forever, especially after Shepherd had gotten hold of it. Now here it was, dangling from the hand of the CIA.

_Not sure it's much of an improvement, mind._

"What Shepherd was willing to kill his own for?"

Rev's question was soft-spoken, respectful. "What Riley and Sanderson died for?"

MacTavish's answer was nearly inaudible. "Aye."

"So they'd tell no tales, while he spun a few of his own," said Rev. "What if we told you we don't buy the whole Shepherd legend, or the story about you two — and that we're not the only ones?" The cigarette smoke coiled pale in the dark, brown in the sharpening beams of sunlight spilling down from the holes in the roof. "Those are some pretty serious accusations." Rev took another drag. "I'm guessing he tried to hurry up and have you killed before anyone could prove otherwise."

"What was it that he was so desperate to hide? Was it about the nuke? A little late for that, I'd say. So what's bigger than the 400 kiloton elephant in the room?" Buzz asked. "Could it have something to do with the Russian airport attack? It was, after all, his man that got caught."

"Could have done." Price gave them the thoughtful nod they were expecting. _One good lie and a river of blood._ These Yanks had done their homework. Now, in this plastic grip seal bag, they held the potential to rewrite Shepherd's version of history, the one he and Soap had fought so hard to stop in the first place.

"It's damaged, sure, but I've seen what our analysts can do, with devices in far worse shape."

"In the meantime, we can help you keep your heads down, give you some breathing room so you can get yourselves squared away," said Rev.

"The data recovered from this could be the key to showing Shepherd – and the two of you – in a whole new light," said Buzz.

Soap stared at the floor, worrying his lip. "The key to the truth, you mean."

_The trouble with truth is, it's only as good as the willingness to accept it._ "And what if it doesn't?" Price asked.

"You want to throw yourselves on Her Majesty's mercy instead?" Rev asked. "They were about to place you under arrest, remember? Whitehall's hip deep in this — they _have_ to react. They'll be quick to make an example out of you."

"We still have a place or two out in this neck of the woods, where you can take it easy for a few days," said Buzz. "You sure look like you could use it."

Price stood up carefully; he didn't want to give these two any more of a show. It took some doing, between the dizziness and his aching body protesting every inch of the way. Soap remained seated. A look at him and it wasn't hard to work out why.

"Really, man. Your faces are all over the Internet." Buzz cocked his head in a weary plea for reason. "Where are you going to go?"

Armaan's words were the first thing that sprung to Price's mind. "We still have friends in low places."

"Like Kamarov? They're packing their shit and getting out of Dodge as we speak, with US military assistance, which I take it you'd both like to avoid at the moment. I'd recommend it, actually." Rev flicked his cigarette ash in a shower of sparks.

Soap failed to stifle a cough, his attempt at stoicism falling flat — with his flexing jaw and heaving shoulders, he wasn't fooling anyone. Buzz stopped what he was doing. "Son, you look like you've had about enough for one day."

"I'm fine." Soap didn't sound too convinced of that himself.

"How silly of us not to notice." Buzz finished zipping everything back in the bag and stood, offering a hand, which Soap didn't take. Giving up, he sighed. "C'mon, let's get you out of here, get you both looked at. After you get some rest, we can talk some more."

"Cheers, lads, but it's time we were on our way," said Price.

Rev gave him a disapproving frown. "The Russians did a good job of patching him up, but there's only so much they can do out here. What if they missed something, or God forbid, something's gone wrong?"

The thought was almost as disturbing as Soap's lack of reaction to being talked about like he wasn't there.

Buzz looked Price up and down. "How much more do you think _you_ can take? You were already warned that your next injury could be your last. That was a couple injuries ago."

Out of the corner of his eye, Price recognized the subtle shift in Soap's posture, and the loyalty behind it. To anyone else, he appeared resolute. But Price had known him long enough, could read him better than his own mum could — much to the lad's dismay. Though he'd said nothing, and wouldn't, Soap was reaching the end of his tether. Weakened and exhausted from his ordeal, he'd wanted to accept their offer. Of comfort, safety. Of a way out.

"No, you look at him, Price," said Rev. "Take a good look. Your buddy's a hot mess and so are you. How much longer do you think you can keep this up?"

Buzz leaned back against the crates. "Look, nobody said it would be quick, and no one's saying it's gonna be easy." He glanced up at the brightening sky. "Life is strange sometimes. To think the 141 was formed to go after Makarov, public enemy number one. Now _you're_ some of the most wanted men on Earth. Come with us. Help us get to the truth about Shepherd, so we can help _you_. We might be the only ones who can."

"And what if our answer is no?"

With a huff of disbelief that said he thought Price was barking mad, Buzz pinched the bridge of his nose, his face crumpling while he scrubbed a hand over it. "You know… " He picked his head up, keen blue eyes zeroing in on Price. "Collateral damage is an ugly thing." He nodded at Soap. "Would you take him down with you?"

What _weren't_ they saying?

"You did what you felt you had to do. Trust me, we get it. But others?" He shook his head slowly. "Not so much."

"You're awfully quiet, MacTavish," said Rev. " _You've_ got family back home, don't you?"

The question hung in the air, the point made.

"Your parents, your sister, Sara … you can just imagine what they're going through."

Price kept his eyes straight ahead, not taking the bait, knowing Soap would do the same.

"The way we see it, we're some of the best friends you've got right now," said Buzz.

The saddest cut of all was, he might actually be right about that one. Except for one very inconvenient fact: these spooks still had someone else to answer to.

"I don't think so." Price hoped that he was somehow wrong about this, that Soap would have a chance to confront him later – that he wouldn't learn first hand the reason for his refusal.

Only one way to find out.

Buzz sighed again. "Well… "

When Price opened the door, he was greeted by an HK416 flash hider, Oakley sunglasses and an American accent. All belonged to one of the Delta lads, the big red-faced blond bastard — Mike.

"Going somewhere, shitbird?"

Lifting his hands in the air, Price turned stiffly back to Buzz, who looked truly apologetic. "For what's it worth, I _am_ sorry about all this. Had to try the carrot before the stick. You did what you had to do … and now we must."

Rev stubbed out his cigarette with a single twist.

"It's not a request."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

**Frogman** – US military slang for a combat diver, usually meaning a Navy SEAL

_**Per Mare Per Terram**_ _–_ "By sea, by land", motto of the Royal Marines

**RUMINT** – intelligence based on a rumor

**SIM** – Subscriber Identity Module. An integrated circuit embedded into a small plastic card containing security information and a unique identifier for a mobile phone. Can be used to identify the user and track its location.

_**Utrinque Paratus –**_ "Ready for anything", motto of the British Parachute Regiment

**Zodiac** – Brand of inflatable boat


	23. A Gentlemen's Agreement

_It's over._

This new reality was a numbing, crushing weight bearing down on an already exhausted MacTavish. It had arrived with the Delta operators silently flowing in through the doorway, weapons drawn.

Squinting in the bright sunlight, he stumbled. The soldiers walking alongside him caught him under each arm. The flexcuffs were firm but not too tight, their hands bound in front now. A blindfold would be applied instead of a hood, and only when deemed absolutely necessary…

Good to know they were moving up in the world.

_All journeys — all roads — come to an end._

The sky was a brilliant blue, white wisps of cloud like strokes from a paintbrush. Birds sang in swaying tree branches overhead. The breeze ruffled tall grasses alongside the dirt road, silencing the ticking insects and releasing the dry sweetness of fading wildflowers. Each step toward the two dusty Land Cruisers felt heavier than the last.

 _How_ _will ours end?_

Just ahead, Mike and another Delta soldier draped in brown Afghan garb moved in concert toward the vehicles, rifles scanning in every direction.

_Right now, it's looking like an orange boiler suit will be involved. Pretty much a definite, that one. Well Nikolai, looks like it's going to be a one-way trip after all. Just not the type we were counting on. So much for the blaze of glory._

MacTavish swallowed back the ache in his throat. _It ended in flames for Gary and Simon._ _There was nothing glorious about it._

Buzz and Rev fell into step beside them, prompting the Old Man to speak for the first time since being officially suspended from duty. Once the cuffs went on, there hadn't been much left to say.

"Why'd you even bother?" Price asked, earning unfriendly looks from the two escorting him. "That mad Russian bastard already had us all wrapped up for you like Father Christmas."

The words were exactly what MacTavish had expected. It was the weary, defeated tone that took him by surprise.

"We didn't want it to go down this way. We really hoped you'd come of your own free will," Buzz shook his head sadly. "You have to understand, we can't let you go."

"You know if _we_ didn't catch up with you, someone else would, faster than you could say ISI," said Rev. " _They_ would have sold you to Makarov."

Price barely acknowledged them. "I suppose we should be grateful then, eh?"

"So that was all a load of old shite? What you said back there — did you mean a single fucking word of it?" Soap asked.

For as much as he'd irritated MacTavish at first, Buzz seemed genuinely troubled by the accusation. "We're in your corner on this. Everything I said is true – the data from this DSM could really help pull your asses out of the fire."

" _But…"_ Price stopped, his eyes narrowing at the deep tire marks stamped in the mud at his feet. "Now for the fine print."

Buzz sighed. "You know this can't be without consequences. There's still going to have to be some sort of … reckoning."

"Right," said Price, resuming their march toward the inevitable.

 _What we accomplished in Russia, what the DSM might yet reveal - it's got to count for something, right?_ MacTavish thought. _Maybe a sentence that won't see me old and gray before I get out?_

Hagar gestured to his men. "Shamrock, with me. We're with the CIA and Price in the lead vehicle. Atticus, Mike, Terry and Kurt will be following with MacTavish."

"We're going to do everything we can," Buzz called after them.

"That's adorable."

"Come on, Price — "

"Either you really are that naive, or you forget who you're talking to."

When Price finally turned to Buzz, MacTavish's heart sank. He could see that the Old Man _wasn't_ winding up to deliver the sort of classic bollocking he was known for.

"There will be much deliberation on what's to be done with us, none of which will involve _you."_ Price's tired face cracked into a bitter half-smile. "That's above your pay grade, isn't it mate? Someone far above your superiors, beyond the Agency itself, they'll be having the last word - the sort they'll neither confirm nor deny. Until then, after we've exchanged pleasantries, my guess is we'll be thrown into the deepest, darkest hole the CIA can find. One of your black sites." The tall ginger called Shamrock hustled him into the back seat, pulling the door shut behind them.

Buzz glanced at MacTavish. "Like I said, a flair for the dramatic," he muttered as he walked around the other side of the vehicle and got in. Meanwhile, the back door of the second 4x4 swung open, waiting.

Mike's voice was a low rumble of wintergreen in Soap's ear. "Works for me."

* * *

Atticus raised an eyebrow. Whatever Mike had just said to him, MacTavish hadn't seemed to appreciate it. But their detainee offered no resistance as Mike cupped a hand over his head to prevent him from hitting it as he got into the back of the truck, like any cop putting some unfortunate into a squad car. The vehicles sputtered and hummed to life.

"I don't know, boss. Still feels all wrong somehow."

"I don't like it any more than you do," said Hagar.

"What's the status of Jupiter-nine-one?"

"On station in 30 mikes."

"Roger that." Atticus nodded, glancing upward. Though no enemy activity had been observed in this region, he'd feel much better once the MQ-9 Reaper drone was back overhead.

"All right, let's get this over with." said Hagar. "You and I have some letters to write."

"And a talk to give about Jake." The rest of the team didn't yet know that their sniper, critically wounded during the attack on the bunker, hadn't made it. The mostly uneventful had turned deadly just over the course of the last week. Several injured, two of their mates lost, the survivors on autopilot. Now wasn't the time to relay the latest news of the third. Not while they still had a job to do.

"Yeah." Hagar nudged a stone with the toe of his boot.

"This deployment … never saw it ending like this."

"I know."

"Look who we just put cuffs on. Up until a couple weeks ago, I would have jumped at the chance to serve with these guys. Jesus, they were fuckin' rock stars."

"Yeah. Oh well." The stone came loose, rolling out of its mooring and down into a deep rut in the road. "Oh shit!" Both men quickly backed up a few feet — in the crater where the stone had lain, a small flat wedge of dull green plastic stuck out of the dirt. An unexploded PFM-1 Russian butterfly mine.

"Doesn't pay to stir shit up around here, does it?" Atticus asked.

Responding to the impatient looks emanating from the trucks, Hagar clapped him on the shoulder, the comforting gesture not matching the cool detachment in his green eyes. "C'mon. Time for our 'rock stars' to face the music."

* * *

At first their efforts appeared to be in vain, their baited hooks untouched. But there were fish here, hiding in the shadows cast by the bridge. Just out of the beams of sunlight piercing the bloom of silt churned up by the rapids. With patience, a closer look would reveal the dark waving of fins and tails in the rocky brown depths.

"How do you know he'll be there?" Marjan asked in Pashto, casting out again further upstream, watching his line slowly float back toward him.

Beneath the bridge, not taking his eyes off his work, Vadim smiled at his adopted son's question. "Who else besides the CIA would pay so much, apart from those on the receiving end of their largesse?" Reaching upward, he lifted his head, frowning with annoyance at having to peer down his nose through the small lenses of his reading glasses. Yes, this looked like it would be just enough. He tucked the gray putty into place. "Honestly, I don't. If not, another time, perhaps. We'll still double our money." Now for the detonator.

"Please reconsider. This is one list we don't want to be on." Marjan grunted with surprise as his line began to jiggle.

With a sideways glance, Vadim chuckled. They hadn't planned on being here for very long. No one had expected to actually catch anything. "What's one more?" _Snip._ He pocketed the wire cutters and stepped back to assess the results, blinking at the blue slivers of daylight spilling down through the wooden bridge's decking. With a hum of satisfaction, he carefully picked his way, stone by stone, out from beneath the bridge as his son fought with his catch, the tip of his fishing rod curving into a bow. Vadim picked up his own rod from where it had been propped in his absence. His line had drifted downstream, far from anything of interest. He reeled it in.

"We've already pushed our luck with them once. We should count our blessings that we lived to tell about it," said Mirwais, watching his brother pull up his line to lift the wriggling fish out of water. Setting his rod aside, Vadim stuck a thumb into the fish's mouth to hold it steady while he removed the hook.

"How will you even know it's him?" Mirwais asked. They were twins by birth, yet still individuals in features and personality. "It's been a long time."

Cradling the fish in both hands, Vadim paused to look into its flat, staring eye. He stooped down to lower it back into the water. "Some things you never forget." With a silver flip of its tail, it was gone. He shook the water from his hands as the two younger men gathered up the fishing tackle. "Time to move to another spot." He shouldered his pack, glancing back at the explosives nestled beneath the bridge. "The fishing's no good here."

* * *

" _Sir," Riley began. "Are you sure you want to do this?"_

 _**Oh fuck me.** _ _Soap groaned inwardly. Not one of Simon's better decisions, doing it here. Doing it at all._

_It took a lot of bottle to question Price's immediate reinstatement as their OC. He'd only just been rescued from the notorious gulag at Petropavlosk, yet the Head Shed had made the puzzling decision that he would be headed straight back to Rybachiy the next morning, replacing MacTavish as leader of the raid on the nuclear submarine base there. While Riley had expressed his reservations to Soap in private, the briefings were over, the plans finalized. That should have been the end of it._

_They'd been shown to a wardroom where they could relax a bit before attempting a few hours' sleep. Though some had chosen to do just that, most of the 141 had gathered here to unwind. Archer wandered around looking at the plaques, pictures and trophy cases while Toad provided ongoing commentary. Others, like Gary, were having a soda or hot brew. The rest were lounging on the furniture that bordered the room, having sifted through the collection of books and months-old magazines. Since anything concerning guns, sport and autos was already spoken for, Soap opted for home renovation. Maybe he'd be interested in that someday, stranger things had happened. It was a bad habit in this business, spending more time planning for your death than what you might actually do with the rest of your life. His military career was already half over. Hell, he'd watched the carrier's air wing crew – kids barely out of high school, swarming over the flight deck in their color-coded jerseys like a human rainbow - and wondered how he'd gotten so old._

_MacTavish took a seat at one of the round dining tables, where Gary sat absently turning the bottles of ketchup, mustard and hot sauce so their labels faced the same direction. He stopped when he realized he was being watched, regaining interest in his coffee cup and his iPod. Soap wasn't going to press. Each in his own way, in his own time._

_There was a TV, but no one had bothered to turn it on. It was probably for the best._

_A few well-timed glances over_ _**This Old House** _ _showed Price sitting on the far end of a navy-blue sofa that matched the floor tile. With his forearms propped on his knees, he frowned at the leather-bound book hovering over his lap, balanced in his upturned hands._

_He hadn't turned a page in over fifteen minutes._

_Through all this careful observation, Soap hadn't seen Simon making his way over to the Old Man through all the bitching and good-natured arguments, not in time to stop him. Now he'd have a front row seat._

_Riley took an armchair next to Price, unconsciously mimicking his posture. "Some of the lads and I were talking … "_

_It was difficult to hear over Toad and Archer. The threat of World War Three wasn't about to stop those two from taking the piss out of each other._

"— _Different color for each job, since nobody can hear jack shit up there. Kinda like a bunch of breakdancing Power Rangers."_

" _Let's leave your sordid personal fantasies out of this, alright?"_

_Soap heard enough, though._

" … _given you the green light, it might be for the best if you sat this one out."_

" _Is that right?" Price's unusually soft tone screamed a warning to all who knew him. Other conversation in the room began to falter. Their medic had voiced that very same concern, and it hadn't been well received. "And how's that?"_

_With respect, sir… " Riley averted his eyes for a moment. "You look like you've just spent some time in a Russian prison."_

_Fair point. Even so, Soap was glad to have Price back, bruises and all. Though it was unorthodox, the thought of the Old Man taking charge gave him comfort; he'd felt a particular unease about this mission that he couldn't explain._

_Price's expression said the hole was too deep already. So Simon did the only thing he_ _**could** _ _do — keep digging._

" _You caught a good kicking more than once. Looks like you were in the middle of an 'unscheduled meeting' when we came and got you. Give it some time to heal, Price. You've lost at least a stone, maybe more. A few days' rest, some scoff, and you'll be ready for the next one, yeah?"_

" _I'm ready now. Can't afford not to be." The next words seemed to be more to himself, his sharp gray eyes momentarily distant as he brought his hands together, folding the book closed. Conrad's_ _ **Heart of Darkness.**_ _"No one can."_

_So much for having a quiet word in the corner of a crowded room. Hearing them was no longer a problem._

" _Right." Simon's gaze swept over his teammates, who seemed to be losing the power of speech. MacTavish knew damn well the next sentence was aimed at him. "If no one else'll say it, I will. It could mean our arses. Sir, every bloke here knows you're not. You most of all." Riley's eyes drifted down to what the others avoided looking at: Price's missing fingernails. "Doesn't take a crystal ball to work out what happened there."_

_Price's icy stare drilled into him. "What of it?"_

_The silence had grown thick. Even Toad had shut his gob._

" _That's only what we can see, isn't it? There's always more we_ _can't_ _see… " Simon's eyebrows shot up as he shook his head. "Don't I know it, mate," he said softly. "For fuck's sake, these are the bloody Russians we're talking about. They wrote the book on that one."_

_For a split second, something passed across Price's face that MacTavish had never seen before, but it was gone before he could even register what it was._

" _Now all you wanna do is leave that shit behind. Like it never happened, yeah? So you're gonna jump right back into the action, balls to the wall, but I'm telling you it doesn't help." Leaning in, he lowered his voice, as if it still mattered. "The cold sweats, they only wake you up. The memories will come whether you want 'em or not — at all the wrong times, in all the wrong places— "_

_Price cut him off. "Your concerns are duly noted."_

_The clipped, well-worn phrase was his cue to leave it — the Old Man's offer of way out. Simon was never very good at taking hints._

_He took a breath, doing his best to keep his temper, which MacTavish suspected was really aimed at him too. "You_ _**can't** _ _forget, not while the bastards are still breathing, and you sure as hell aren't going to forgive. It won't end until only one of you is left. Are you ready to risk this team for it?"_

_Everyone else was frozen in place like statues._

" _We're only as strong as our weakest link. All it takes is just one bloke who's not at a hundred percent — you don't need me to tell you what can happen. What_ _ **has**_ _happened. You have a responsibility here, and part of that is knowing when it's time to step back."_

" _Reminding me of my responsibilities, are you?" Setting the book aside, Price nodded slowly, with a penetrating look around the silent room. "That's rich, coming from you, Riley. So what I'm hearing,_ _ **lieutenant**_ _, is that you believe I'm unfit for command."_

 _Simon locked eyes with him. "Sir, that_ _**is** _ _what I'm saying. Look, everyone knows who you are and what you've done for us. No one doubts what you'll bring to the table once you're back to yourself again. But let's face it; if it were anyone else, we wouldn't be having this discussion. We all know what's at stake here, how fast we have to move — now's not the time to lose our perspective. There's no shame in it, not after what you've just been through. There's no shame in talking to someone about it either."_

_That almost seemed to amuse Price. "You'd best look to your own problems, son. In my day, 'no sympathy in the Regiment' actually meant something. There was no support group — just the lads, ready to give you a kick up the arse if you needed it. Therapy was down at the pub. There was no wailing and gnashing of teeth, no fucking 'trigger warnings'," he snarled sarcastically. "You bloody well dusted yourself off, cinched 'em up, and carried on."_

_Redness was working its way up to Simon's ears. He stood, abandoning his attempt at reason. "It's not_ _**my** _ _problems we're talking about, is it? You had fuck all to do with planning this mission, for a start. Now that Ivan's put down the pliers and the blowtorch, you're in charge of it?"_

" _Lieutenant, if you know what's good for you, you'll wind your bloody neck in_ _ **right now**_ _— "_

_MacTavish dearly wished that he would. But he knew Riley too well._

" _Fuck knows what Shepherd's playing at — it hasn't even been twelve hours, for Christ's sake. It's pretty clear he doesn't give a toss about how you're getting on, or what could go Pete Tong for us because of it. No surprises there from good old 'Danger Close.' Fuck it, since we're gonna throw SOP out with the bathwater –" He flung his hands in the air, exasperated. " -let's just bin OPSEC too, while we're at it."_

_Price rose to face him, taking his time, his voice was a threatening whisper. "What are you getting at, lieutenant? That just maybe … Makarov's boys might have gotten a little something for their trouble?"_

_It was sickening to think about, beyond_ _insulting to suggest. It was also a fact._ _**Everyone** _ _breaks. Without exception. It's just a matter of when. It was written all over his face; Riley hadn't meant it quite like that. Too late._

_Price quirked an eyebrow. "I guess you'd know something about that, eh?"_

" _I — " was all Riley could manage._

_Gary was looking at the floor. Everyone else was looking … anywhere else._

" _You needn't worry," Price said coolly. "They didn't get a god damned thing. Because_ _ **some**_ _of us still know how to suck it up and deal with it."_

_Fucking hell — what had gotten into him?_

" _You assume we've got something in common now, that we're both damaged goods? Since my ability to function doesn't come from a vial, I'm afraid I can't quite relate."_

_Never mind that it wasn't even true anymore. For once, Simon was past talking. A vein throbbed on his temple. MacTavish tensed, ready for a punch-up._

" _All right, since we're all_ _ **sharing**_ _, I've got something to share. The fact is, you're on this team because the Regiment would never take you back, not once you started your steady diet of pills to counteract the effects of the other pills and crying on your shrink's shoulder." He nodded, with a humorless twitch beneath his graying beard_ _._ _"Because_ _ **you**_ _were a liability. Took a little holiday, did you? Wasn't to Spain, was it?"_

_Simon wasn't the only one out of line here. Soap found his voice at last. "Price… "_

" _We're alike in that we were both asked to be a part of this team. The difference being,_ _ **lieutenant**_ _, that no one else would have you, and if your particular skill set wasn't in such short supply, no one would. In fact, if your skills weren't so vital to this mission, you'd be spending it on this ship." Price turned to the rest of the group. "Do any of you ladies have anything_ _ **else**_ _you'd like to fucking say?"_

 _What_ _could_ _he say now? The damage was done._

" _Wheels up at 0400. You know the rest." The watertight steel door, with its rounded corners and lever for a handle, reminded Soap of a pressure cooker. Now more than ever. Except after it had squealed opened and slammed shut again, the atmosphere wasn't much less stifling than before._

_After multiple delays, round-the-clock planning and shite odds, the raid on the Kamchatka prison fortress had been a stunning success. Once they'd landed, Soap had felt like his feet were barely touching the flight deck. They'd done it. They'd gotten Price back, alive and whole. Some team members were too new to even have met him; they'd gone on the mission with only stories in the mess to go by. Now it wasn't his shame at Riley's accusing glance just before he'd stalked away, or the silence left in his wake that stung MacTavish the most._

_It was Gary's look of utter disappointment._

* * *

Seeing that side of Price was something MacTavish hadn't planned for, and wished he could forget.

Along with his own gutless indecision and failure to speak up. If he could have gotten over his hero worship for five fucking minutes…

He'd chosen to keep the blinders on. To the hollows in Price's cheeks, to the way his clothing hung on him. Most of all, to the look that had settled over him after the post-rescue afterglow had faded away — what the Americans called the 'thousand-yard stare'. After all that time, losing hope then getting it back, afraid of what he might find, Soap couldn't face it: the wide-eyed, desperate prisoner ready to slot Gary wasn't the same man they'd lost. Back aboard the ship, even he'd had to admit it: Price had been like a wounded animal. Unpredictable, lashing out whenever he'd felt he'd been cornered.

So where was that same viciousness now? He'd sworn he'd never allow this.

Fearsome reputation aside, the Old Man had always inspired respect more than anything. He'd scare an FNG shitless, and before they knew it, they were ready to take a bullet for him. Any beasting he might have dealt you, it was never personal.

Until the line had been crossed with Simon. Soap thought he'd been seeing Price at his worst. Maybe not. The dressing-down of Riley had been hard enough to watch, but not as much as the listless man he'd just seen shuffling along in front of him. Even near death on the bridge, Price still had the will to fight, if not the ability.

It was really _was_ over.

MacTavish wasn't sure which he dreaded more, the idea of the Old Man giving up or suddenly changing his mind. Because unless he did, they'd live to fight another day.

The truth would come out. There were still things needing to be put right. Debts to be paid.

_Gary's family deserves something more than a letter about how he died. I'm going to tell them how their son lived._

What if Simon had gotten his way, and Price _had_ stayed behind? They wouldn't be sat here now, there wouldn't have been a nuclear detonation over the East coast of the US…

…And the Russians would have taken Washington.

He caught himself almost cracking a smile, recalling Riley's wisdom on such things, served up with a pint following Price's disappearance: ' _Listen … after it's all said and done, still pondering all the "what-ifs" is a dry, unsatisfying mind-wank without the benefit of a magazine. So knock it the fuck off, yeah?'_ Unable to counter such logic, MacTavish had sighed and raised his glass.

_I owe you one hell of an apology mate — and a drink, even if it's the one I pour over your grave. I'll be over when I can. We'll knock back a few._

A bump in the road sent him hunching over, hugging his bandaged midsection. The pain brought him back to the present tense, in the back seat of yet another Toyota 4X4 sandwiched between a bigger pair of tooled-up hairy bastards. A reminder that any such opportunity would likely be long in the making.

_A strange twist of fate, this — after our missions with them, to be captured by Delta._

_At least we don't know any of these guys. If it had been Frost, or Sandman … it would have been bloody awkward, not that it isn't already._

_Looks like I'll be seeing my da and ma and Sara again after all, though not exactly the way I wanted — much less how they wanted._

There was someone else he'd have to face _._ He stared down at the black plastic strips encircling his wrists. _I don't want her to see me like this._

Now he was being cowardly. Selfish. But how selfish would it be to expect her to wait? For how long? They weren't about to be hauled in front of the Judge Advocate General because they'd been caught shoplifting. She was young, with her whole life ahead of her. Hopefully she still had a career to consider.

_She has to move on, for her own sake. No matter what she says right now, she'll eventually settle down. Marry some other bloke, pop out a few kids._

_Could have been my kids._

_Some things just weren't meant to be, I guess._

The lump was back in his throat now.

They passed the carcass of an old T-62. The former symbol of Soviet military might lay vandalized and impotent in the weeds while some Afghan teenagers used its main gun for a jungle gym. The tank's tracks had been blown off, folded into a rusty pile that seemed to fertilize the prolific growth of purple and yellow flowers blooming around it.

In order to see it, he'd had to look to his left, past Delta's medic, making eye contact despite his attempts to avoid it. So far, Terry had been a man of few words. Before they'd left, he'd given them both a curt once-over. While he'd been professional about it, Soap could tell he had something to say. Yet he'd kept it under wraps, not unlike the shemagh knotted around his head and the long brown shalwar and black waistcoat covering his T-shirt and ballistic vest. When his pale blue eyes rolled sideways, MacTavish had a pretty good idea of what was coming. He'd committed the cardinal sin, betrayed the tribe.

"Didn't you two win some kind of medal for the Russian civil war? The Victoria Cross, right?" Terry asked softly. "Something like that? Now look at you. What the fuck happened?"

MacTavish stared back at him as he posed his question to the group. "How much longer?"

"I told you, you should've gone before we left," said Mike, sitting on his right. "Now you're just gonna have to hold it."

"Not that, you wanker — _ahhfck! "_ MacTavish's next few words were as profane as they were unintelligible.

"Oops, sorry. Kinda crowded back here." Mike looked down with mock embarrassment at the elbow he'd just jabbed into Soap's stomach. After a few seconds of exaggerated interest in his misery, Mike cocked his head, his blond eyebrows almost high enough to touch the folds of his rust-colored headdress. "You were saying?"

"How … long," said MacTavish through gritted teeth.

"Oh yeah. Another hour. Your chariot awaits, don't worry. This area is rather sleepy as hamlets go. Regardless of what any of the locals might think, the gods are on _our_ side. Or least they will be in about 20 minutes." The fucker had a blob of dried brown spit in his attempt at a beard. He'd spat out the chewing tobacco just before they'd got moving, ending Soap's idle fantasies of making him swallow it. Now he'd just settle for punching him in the throat. "It's only a short flight. You'll love it - you get to stay awake, keep your clothes on and everything."

Atticus look over his shoulder from the front seat. "Stow that shit, Mike."

"Just making conversation."

Quite the arsehole, this one. He'd been one from the start, actually. Standoffish at best. Now Soap could feel the hostility oozing out of his every pore. Things were awkward, all right. Getting worse by the minute. It wasn't just their fall from grace, this _had_ to be about Rerun.

They weren't there. They couldn't know. But they _definitely_ suspected.

Never mind the DSM, what would the aircraft footage show? US Apaches had been overhead at the time. Would the ghostly white figures of a FLIR video be enough to implicate them? If the Yanks had caught the entire incident on camera, it sure as hell could throw a spanner in the works.

_What was I supposed to do? The cunt waited until Price's back was turned, pulled out his pistol … I know what I saw. Not that they'd believe me._

The American had a score he'd wanted to settle, that much was clear. Over what, though? MacTavish thought about it for a moment, about their earlier conversation with the CIA about where Shepherd pulled his talent from…

_Hotel Bravo. Shite._

_This could be one long fucking ride._

He'd noticed that the spooks seemed to be at odds with the Delta lads. More than one stern look had passed between them, especially after Price had yelped in pain earlier. From what, MacTavish hadn't been sure. Buzz had intervened, though the Old Man wouldn't elaborate. Perhaps some remnant of a gulag experience he'd chosen to keep to himself. Soap had gotten the impression that the CIA were keeping them in check somewhat, by their mere presence, if nothing else.

_Right, they just need to keep doing that for a little while longer._

The 4x4 slowed. Crumbling stone pillars like castle turrets loomed before them, the supports for an ancient suspension bridge. A single lane's worth of logs hanging from a tangle of thin cables. It looked like a model from some kid's school project. Brilliant.

Kurt, who was driving, let out a long low whistle between his teeth.

_I don't suppose it would help to ask if we're there yet._

"No guts no glory," said Mike.

"Keep in mind, vehicles cross this thing every day," said Atticus.

" _Insh'allah,"_ mumbled Terry. "Like everything else here."

The lead vehicle began to roll across. Out of the open windows, Soap could hear the bridge creaking under its weight, filled to capacity with burly passengers, their kit and extra ammo. Was the sodding thing _swaying_? After Russia, he wasn't overly fond of bridges to begin with.

Though the river looked shallow for the moment, its banks were as sharp and steep as the mountains that rose around them. Snowmelt would rush through this narrow valley, carving it more deeply every year. The tops of the tall gray-green shadows would whiten soon enough, though MacTavish would be long gone before then.

Now it was their turn. Deciding the Afghans had the right idea, MacTavish said a silent prayer as they slowly began to roll across the wooden bridge.

Everyone had gone quiet. The thing _was_ swaying, creating a sick feeling in the pit of Soap's stomach. Thankfully it wasn't that high, the water looked to be about three or four meters down. Mostly shallow rapids upstream, round gray stones dotted the brown riffles bubbling into a darker green center just below them. Deep but not that deep, the water's surface still wrinkled by strong current.

Halfway there. Timbers squealed against each other as the bridge flexed.

"How long until we're handed over?" MacTavish asked. Heads turned but no one answered. "To our own?"

"That's up to your buddies at the Agency. There's some sort of agreement," said Kurt.

"What are you on about — agreement with who?"

"Your government," said Atticus. "Some sort of gentlemen's agreement, the one that Armaan violated when he took off with you. That if we got to you first, the Agency would have some time for a debrief. You can ask 'em."

They were over the bridge now, rocking back and forth over the deep ruts in the the road. MacTavish no longer cared. His head was spinning. After averting nuclear disaster, killing Zakhaev, nearly dying in the process — thinking they'd _won_ … then just a few years later losing man after man in pursuit of Makarov until being led to the final slaughter in the Caucasus … _this_ was what it had all come down to?

Not that MacTavish trusted them further than he could throw them, but what if the CIA guys were right — that they'd be made an example of?

 _Collateral damage._ He closed his eyes, the long slow exhale not easing the heaviness in his chest. He didn't have to ask if it was true. The altar of public opinion would demand a sacrifice.

Mike glanced at the back of his XO's head before leaning in close. "While you're at it, maybe you should ask 'em if your people even know we have you," he whispered with a smirk.

That got MacTavish's attention.

As he turned, a massive jolt shot through them with a roar of blinding dust, green starbursts erupting across the windscreen. Rocks and dirt clods rained down, followed by gunfire punching through thin steel.

The Land Cruiser blossomed like a deadly flower, rifles coming up to point out the windows. The lead vehicle opened fire.

"Contact front! IED! Shots from the northwest!" Atticus shouted, repeating the information they'd just heard in their earpieces. "Back up, back up!"

Kurt had already slammed on the brakes and thrown the 4x4 into reverse, whipping his head around as the rear differential whined. Going back around the turn they'd just taken, they nearly careened off the road before he regained control. The stone towers reappeared, growing in the rear window as they backed down the hill. The 4x4 clambered backward onto the bridge.

Kurt blew out his breaths between pursed lips, concentrating on keeping them moving in a straight line as they backed up … until they suddenly slowed.

"What the fuck!" he shouted. The damaged vehicle had stalled.

Soap's eyes went wide. The one in front of them hadn't. "SHI —"

The force of the collision snapped them back in their seats, the front airbags bursting into view. Heavy breathing, almost in unison, a slow deflation into rumpled rags beneath the glittering mosaic of the shattered windscreen … one breath, another… Coughing, white powder still settling over them, someone groaned—

An explosion from behind threw them forward again, the bridge heaving up wavelike beneath them before plunging away in a sickening drop, the snapping cables like cracking whips. One teeth-jarring impact followed another; the world pitched and tilted, a whirlwind of broken glass and loose objects slamming into him — plastic cases, duffel bags, guns … the crush of bodies next to his. The noise and pain surrounding him dissolved into a gray blur, cold and wet, the cacophony blotted out by the swirl of water rising over his head.

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

**FLIR** \- Forward Looking Infrared. A type of thermal imaging camera used on aircraft.

 _ **Insh'allah** [Arabic] - '_ God willing'.

 


	24. Pinnacle

Multiple voices shouted all at once … a bubbling ache of cold water in his ears muffled the noise.

Shouting again as Price's head broke the surface for a deep lungful of air.

" –ev! Yo! You hear m- "

Back under he went, groping with bound hands for the buckle to his seatbelt. He found it with numb fingertips, just before he had to come back up.

" —Okay, you're all — "

He let the water swallow him again, the pain of his fractured ribs threatening to steal the breath he'd just taken as he twisted round, fighting against the push of the river churning through their partially submerged 4x4. Feeling Buzz struggling alongside him, he kept jamming his thumbs into the catch, to no avail. _Fuck!_ He pushed and wiggled until it finally released with a jerk. He gripped the headrest to pull himself up, grateful for the echo of his own ragged breathing in the tight space.

" –ook at me. Hey!" Buzz, seated on Price's right, had just freed himself from his own seatbelt. Rev sat huddled against the left side of the vehicle, clutching his left arm to his chest. "You still in there?"

"Last I checked," Rev mumbled, looking dazedly at the water pouring out past him through the open window, spilling over the wreckage that blocked the door.

Steam hissed out from beneath the bonnet. The Land Cruiser had come to rest amidst the tangle of logs that, thanks to some well-placed explosives, had just been converted from a bridge to a dam.

Hagar and Shamrock were extricating themselves and their kit from the crumpled front of the 4x4. "Everybody good?" Hagar asked, with a blood-streaked glance over his shoulder.

"Not exactly," said Buzz, frowning. He reached across Price toward his partner.

Unable to do much with his hands flexcuffed, Price got out of the way, rolling over the seat into the back. Through the cracked rear window, he spotted the other Land Cruiser behind them. With a surge of panic, he realized the back of it was mostly underwater.

He tried the handle, the hatch was jammed shut. Its passengers could be injured, trapped — how much precious time had already been lost? He rolled over onto his back and kicked. The rear window thudded in its moorings, cracking further but not breaking. Through the spiderwebs of fractured glass, he could see men emerging from what had been their vehicle's windscreen … pulling MacTavish out with them.

"Soap?" Another kick left blurs and shadows shifting through an intricate kaleidoscope. "Soap!" Price's boot crashed through, blue-green shards cascading down on him.

MacTavish lay across the bonnet of the 4x4, soaked to the skin, sputtering and coughing. Clutching his abdomen, curled up in the fetal position. Alive. When he opened his eyes, he returned Price's nod of inquiry, slapping one of his bound hands against the metal before collapsing back on it.

Price slumped back against the uncomfortable pile of cargo, panting. Water kept running into his eyes, so he pulled the sodden bandage from around his head, slicking back his hair with the heels of his hands. Footsteps flexed their way across the roof overhead; Hagar was on his way to help Kurt and Atticus pull the others out. A moan of pain rose up behind him - Buzz and Shamrock were busy with the injured Rev.

Price winced, looking down to see what was poking him in the side: Buzz's duffel bag.

* * *

Still coughing painfully, MacTavish sat up. The two vehicles were butted up against each other, almost touching, with less than a meter's gap between them. Price shimmied his way feet-first out of the jagged hole in the rear window, hampered by his cuffed hands. MacTavish eased himself down to the edge of the bonnet, propping his feet against the front vehicle.

"Time to make ourselves scarce." Kurt stood on the roof behind him, his dripping rifle snug in his shoulder, scanning the area from where they'd came. "Those assholes will be on top of us any minute."

Soap reached out for Price. "Watch your step, Old Man." Good advice, considering what could happen if he fell into the fast-moving water surging between the two vehicles.

With a pull from MacTavish, Price joined him on the Land Cruiser's bonnet. "Cheers," he said.

What was left of the bridge was a broken, twisted wooden belt that had been unceremoniously dumped into the river, with the two mangled 4x4s topping off the disarray. The steady flow pushed them against the scattered logs, pouring over any barrier it encountered while rushing through every available opening. This amplified the current's power, forming a trap known as a 'strainer'. Having been on kayaking trips with a former girlfriend, MacTavish recognized the danger it posed. What began as a mild current upstream would be enough to hold a man fast, pinning him against the obstacle as it rushed through, until the water eventually took him. The river was swifter than it had first appeared.

"You're looking none the worse for wear — relatively speaking," said MacTavish. The others hadn't been as fortunate, their faces smeared with watery red.

"Now there's a novelty, isn't it? Had the best seat in the house," Price said, watching Buzz and Shamrock's attempts to get their casualty out of the 4x4. "Can't say the same for him, he's taken a knock to the head."

"I got you, bud," Buzz said, supporting him while Shamrock folded down a rear seat to make way. Rev howled as soon as they stood him up, the current pushing against his left arm.

Price's mouth pressed into a disapproving line. "Definitely broken."

Hagar's HK416 swept the horizon of the land just above them. "Terry, switch places with Sham, get Rev squared away. We're off like a prom dress, gents. _Detainees_ , let's go."

Just ahead of them, Mike jumped into the fan of white bubbles downstream, disappearing briefly before surfacing. With a few short strokes, he was able to stand. Shamrock rummaged through the flooded Land Cruisers, tossing a few small kit bags in his direction. The sort packed with the barest of necessities, in case one needed - as Price would put it - to fuck off sharpish. Anything else would be left behind. Mike followed each splash, heaving the cargo toward the shore.

Squeezing through the shuffle of men on the relatively small, canted roof was easier said than done, especially without being able to stick one's hands out for balance. Soap and Price had to pick their way over one at a time, careful not to slide off.

"C'mon!" Hagar shouted. "We're fish in a barrel down here!"

MacTavish did his best to follow Atticus's movements, with Price close behind him. If they didn't hurry, they could die in contact, or worse. Bound and unarmed, they had no means of defending themselves. But one wrong step, and they wouldn't have to worry about it any more.

Soap's foot slipped out from under him. "Shite," he hissed, tightening his two-handed grip on a broken log. The spray was cold from the water funneling through the debris beneath him. Anyone caught in that wouldn't get out without help, if they got out at all.

Grunting with effort, he pulled himself up, firmly planting his feet before reaching for another log. Christ, he was as weak as gnat's piss. Thank fuck they didn't have far to go. Once they were up and over, they'd be past the most dangerous bit, the river was only deep in the middle. Then it would be a short swim to relative safety. Atticus had reached the top of the pile, while just ahead of him, Shamrock leapt into the water with Mike, grasping his hand to form a human chain. He waved up at them. "All right, c'mon down."

"Whoa!" Atticus shouted. The wreckage groaned beneath them as the log MacTavish clung to tipped backward, a wall of water smashing into his back and legs.

The force nearly tore him from his perch. The flexcuffs were the only thing that saved him, caught on the splintered wood. The current drove his legs down into the spaces between the timbers, pinning him in a seated position while buffeting him from behind.

The plastic was cutting into his wrists, water roaring past his shoulders. It felt like he was being blasted with a firehose. He could hardly move, much less hear Price and the Americans shouting at him. _Hold on. Breathe, stay calm._ What bloody choice did he have?

There was thumping overhead, then a painfully strong grip pulling him up. The current was stronger, turning the rescue attempt into a tug of war. He fought to draw his knees up enough to regain his footing, legs straining with all their might to push himself free of the hole he was stuck in.

An unexpected shove from beneath got him out. "Up you go," grunted Price behind him. As the Americans pulled him up the rest of the way, the pile shifted again. MacTavish whipped his head round just in time to see the debris pivot, dumping Price backward with a splash.

"Price!"

Price's bound hands emerged from the depths, fingers clamping an edge of slippery wood. The torrent pummeled him, drawing the rest of his body beneath the wreckage. He struggled to pull himself up, water sluicing over his head as he shook it from side to side, trying to catch his breath.

"Hold on!" Soap shouted, instinctively climbing back down to make a grab for him. With his hands tied, he had no way to anchor himself. He would be pulled in as well. "Help me!" Adrenalin surged through MacTavish - the wreckage beneath him vibrated from Price's feet scrabbling for purchase, and finding none.

"Hang on, Price!" Atticus was quickly making his way over, with Kurt close behind. Price clawed at the wood as a wave momentarily pushed him under, his desperate face breaking the surface for a gasp of air. He got a gurgling mouthful of water instead. MacTavish's stomach flipped.

"Take my hand!" As Atticus reached down for him, the timbers creaked —

"Shit!" Kurt's last minute grab left him hanging by his fingertips. The twisting wreckage sent him and Atticus scrambling to save themselves, while Price's hands slithered out of sight.

"Price!" To MacTavish's horror, the thrashing beneath him grew more frantic. Price was trapped beneath the bridge's remains, underwater. "NO!" he screamed.

The scraping against the wood grew fainter…

"Jesus!" Soap sprang up, only to be held back by the two Americans. "Let — " he struggled. " —go of me!"

"MacTavish — stop!" Atticus shouted. "You can't help him. Not like this." Kurt leapt into the water downstream, just past the wreck.

Soap fell to his knees, laying his palms on the logs. He couldn't feel anything. Nothing anywhere. He twisted out of their grasp and dove, a cold plunge into bleary green shadows, forced to shut his eyes against the swirling grit. He groped at the wreckage, feeling only rocks and wood, probing the empty spaces between. He pushed and pulled, not caring about the pain lancing through his belly. It wouldn't budge.

Forced to come up for air, he found himself in an eddy, a calm flat pool from what had been a fierce rush on the other side.

There was no sign of Price.

He dove again. He found a section he could wiggle, but not much. He rocked it back and forth, growling in frustration, until he felt like his lungs would burst. When he resurfaced, he was met by an assembly of somber faces. Had the bastards even really tried to find him? The current's push was gentle now, the riverbed's stones appearing beneath his feet.

"We gotta go," said Hagar.

Not after everything. Not like this.

"Right now."

Though the Old Man would have agreed, MacTavish waded back into the deep, barely hearing Hagar ordering the others to get him out of there. Barely noticing the splashing behind him, the arms wrapping around his, the American voices telling him what he couldn't accept.

"Price," he rasped. Tears stung his eyes.

"C'mon. The drone's back overhead, there's at least ten of them on foot," said Atticus.

The last man, again. This time for keeps. There were no more friendly faces left.

"They're only a couple klicks behind." Atticus was helping them lead him away. "Getting closer."

No one left to listen, no cheerful ribbing to put his big girl knickers on and stop being such a knobhead. No more gruff reassurances of _steady on_ , that everything was going to be okay. Gary, Simon … now Price. Gone.

His legs were doing what was right, reluctantly stepping backward, though he couldn't stop looking. Hoping. Fighting to suppress the unwanted memory, the cruel irony of another ruined bridge where he'd thought he'd lost him. Downstream from the wreckage, they stood amidst a scene from a postcard. Blue skies, tall mountains, the wind a fragrant rush through the trees, pine boughs draping green fingers into rippling water. As if nothing had happened. Finally turning away was a fresh, raw agony.

A couple meters behind him, MacTavish heard bubbling. Something large billowed to the surface.

A familiar green Russian army jacket.

A pale hand —

The faster Soap tried to get there, the more the water seemed to impede him. It was a race in churning, splashing slow motion. Price's body floated facedown, propelled slowly along by the river. Reaching him first, Atticus turned him over, limp arms and legs trailing along behind him. Shamrock hooked an arm around his chin, making powerful strokes toward the shore. MacTavish met them halfway, with Terry right behind him.

Reaching the shallows, Shamrock hauled Price up by his shoulders, his head lolling over the V of his bound arms, flexcuffed hands dangling.

"Get him down on his side," said Terry.

Soap took hold of Price's jaw to turn his head, to see for himself. He had to know. "Not so fast, Old Man. You don't get off that easy," he breathed, barely able to speak. His heart sank. Cold skin, pale lips. A slack, lifeless face. Water dribbled from the corner of Price's mouth, over MacTavish's thumb. It felt a bit warmer, or was he imagining it? "No … come on."

"Look — I'll be that guy, okay? He's gone," said Mike.

"You're always that guy," Terry muttered, feeling for a pulse.

" _We're_ still alive, and we'd better get moving if we wanna stay that way."

"He's — "

Price twitched, and began choking up gouts of water. The deep gasp and violent coughing fit that followed were some of the sweetest sounds MacTavish had ever heard.

"Set him down — set him down!" They sat him down right where he was, not quite out of the river. "Open your eyes," said Terry, squatting down next to him. "Price? Over here." The Delta medic slapped Price's face a bit, getting a dazed response at first. "Hey." He leaned in close, staring intently into his face. "You're not going to woof your cookies, are you?"

Still coughing, Price shook his head, though he sounded like he might. "We have to get the hell out of here," he croaked.

"Did I not just say that?" Mike flung up an exasperated hand.

"Get him up −- let's go!" Hagar waved them toward the tree line behind him.

MacTavish wasn't sure whose knees were knocking harder. Price's wobbly attempt to stand was cut short by the Americans dragging him ashore. Thoroughly drenched, he looked shriveled in size, like a wet cat, the oversized jacket hanging off his lean frame in sad green bat-wings. As soon as he got his feet beneath him, he wrenched himself out of their grip, leaving indignant glares in his wake. Flooded with relief, Soap couldn't stop himself from laughing, which didn't help. "Still with us, then?"

Price nodded as if his head weighed a hundred pounds. "Evidently your arse still needs a good kicking once in a while — " He retched, causing the Delta men to suddenly lose interest in whether or not he could remain standing on his own.

_Saved again._ "How many times is that now?" MacTavish reached out to prevent Price from toppling over. "That's one hell of a bad habit you've got."

Price sniffled, wiping his nose. "I've been meaning to cut back."

And again, from getting choked up. Soap managed a gusty laugh instead. The Old Man was a sight. His bald spot shone through thin stringy hair in the sunlight, a few black sutures knotted across both his temple and the pink goose egg at the base of his skull. "I thought you were in a shit state before. The lads would have paid good money to see this."

Price grimaced. "New rule."

"What's that?"

"From now on, only one near-drowning a week, eh?"

"If you insist." Soap's grin faltered; Mike was looking very inconvenienced by this minor miracle. Well fuck him. "Unreal. How did you manage that one?"

"Found a way under, but my clothes got caught. Must've blacked out." His steps became steadier as they sloshed ashore, trailing dark splotches across pale dry stones. He stopped for a moment to stare up at Mike. "We're alright, thanks. You?" He waddled off, not waiting for the answer. Soap shot the big American a venomous glance in passing.

Rev was ahead of them, assisted by Buzz and Terry. The rest had their guns up, securing the perimeter. "Through here," said Hagar, hustling them along through a patch of trees. "Let's go."

The sight of what lay beyond it stopped them both in their tracks. MacTavish eyed the steep slope with dread. Much of it resembled a 200 meter rock staircase. It started as a field of boulders with a few trees here and there, leading up into a pine forest.

"Good cover, if we can get to it fast enough." Price lifted his bound hands in Hagar's direction.

"What are you looking for, a donation?" Mike asked.

"Well untie us," said Price.

"I don't think so, chief," said Hagar.

"Are you daft? How are we supposed to climb like this? We don't have a snowball's chance if they catch up with us," said MacTavish.

"Guess you'd better move your asses then, huh?" said Mike. For not being the 2IC, this twat sure had plenty to say. The others shifted nervously, eyes darting back and forth from the rifles at their shoulders.

"F -" MacTavish stopped himself at Price's sideways look.

"Piece of piss, right?"

His assessment completed, the Old Man began to climb, bitching under his breath — about them both almost drowning because of the flexcuffs, then something else about broad daylight and 'indian country'. All while still coughing occasionally. Before long, MacTavish was trying not to grin again. The Yanks were fair pissed off as it was.

But he couldn't stop shaking. Pain and fatigue were back on the job, taking over where the adrenalin had left off. They hadn't gotten far before loose stones underfoot drove his knees and palms stinging into the dirt. Atticus sighed. MacTavish's temper flared at the annoyed looks, but he kept his voice calm as he addressed their leader. "Mate, this would be a whole lot easier if you'd untie our hands."

Hagar's eyebrows shot up as he nodded. "Yeah, it would, wouldn't it?" He jerked his head toward the hillside, glancing warily back at the bridge. "Move."

Price helped Soap struggle back to his feet. "Come on, son."

"Tell you what," said Shamrock, covering their retreat. "When we get to the top, you should put that in the suggestion box."

* * *

'This is even better than I'd hoped." After observing the movement of both Delta and their pursuers, Vadim handed the binoculars to Marjan.

His adopted son frowned. "What are they doing?"

"What I told them."

"We should have never hired them for this job. They almost killed someone."

Vadim shrugged. "Ten went in, ten came out."

"They'd better stop, the Americans will have a spyplane - or worse - overhead at any moment"

"I'm counting on it." Vadim patted his shoulder, getting up carefully to stay in the shadows of the rock overhang that hid them from thermal imaging. "Time to go."

* * *

_Pain is only temporary._

Those few words Price had taught him had gotten MacTavish through Selection, some of his most difficult missions, physiotherapy. He kept repeating this in his mind, to blot out the pain clawing through his gut with every step, to force his quivering leg muscles to keep working somehow. Navigating the steep maze of sharp rock while tripping over tree roots had been about as enjoyable as predicted.

Like Price had said, in the scheme of things, this was nothing. He'd scaled much higher and harsher peaks. Fatigued, blistered and sore, battling dehydration. Nursing a bellyful of sutures, however — that was a first.

The knowledge of what would happen if they were caught made him almost forget his misery in favor of gaining the necessary ground. Almost. It wasn't a great distance, except the fact that it was mostly vertical. MacTavish was just trying not to pass out. Or look down.

The Yanks were happy to offer the occasional reminder, the anger helping where the despair had left off. He'd gotten them both caught in the first place. If the Old Man had listened to him, done a runner while he still could, he'd be long gone by now. Far from this shite. Not fleeing possible slow death at the hands of their enemies in favor of certain imprisonment by their friends.

Price's boots skidded on the ledge above him, showering Soap with gravel, one foot kicking out over a sheer drop that had to be around 100 feet. The tops of the pine trees below them looked like a nest of spears, while a toothy maw of jagged rock lay at the bottom, eagerly awaiting any cock-ups. MacTavish sighed. _Had to fucking look, didn't you?_

"Careful, Price. Don't wanna go all head over heels and shit." The corner of Mike's mouth crept upward as he turned to resume his own climb.

Now there was a pleasant diversion for MacTavish, thinking of various ways he could 'help' this cunt with his chronic smirking problem — after he'd taken a month or so to heal up first. He caught up with Price, waiting until Mike was further out of earshot. "Charming, isn't he?"

Price nodded, chest heaving, his narrowed eyes fixed on Mike's retreating back. "Yeah… "

"What's wrong? Well, besides the bit with almost plunging to your death."

"An interesting choice of words."

"What do you mean?"

"Head over heels, over the edge of the cliff … that's exactly what happened the night of the bunker attack." Getting looks from both above and below, they began to climb again. "Right after someone shot me."

Soap needed a moment to let that one sink in, but not a long one. "You think it was him?"

"His mate sure as hell wasn't shy about it."

They continued to struggle upward, staying close together, their words coming in broken whispers. "On the road, he was winding me up, made a crack about how the UK doesn't know we have us," said Soap.

"Wouldn't surprise me. They can draw out… their investigation…" Price huffed.

That was all the breath that either of them could afford to waste on speaking. MacTavish was getting dizzy. Price wheezed a little, his face drawn in tense lines. His ribs had to be killing him, and as Soap recalled from his own near-drowning last week, it had taken a couple days for his breathing to get fully sorted out afterward.

His lightheadedness was worsening, like he might float away before reaching the top. He had to focus on taking one step at a time, blotting out everything else. Pen-y-fan was like an old friend … the Tien Shan just over a week ago … this was nothing…

Someone pulled his arm over their shoulder. Price's voice in his ear startled him. "All right lad, come on."

"You're not in such … great shape yourself … Old Man." Soap was done acting macho about it. To be honest, he needed to sit down, right now, before he repeated last week's performance. Passing out in front of everyone wasn't something he wanted to make a habit of.

By the time they reached the top, MacTavish felt like he was in a dream. One where Kurt had his Knight's Armament M110 propped on his kit bag between some boulders. Atticus and Hagar crouched alongside him behind cover, awaiting their sniper's observations as he peered back down the hill through his scope.

Soap and Price were herded into a small clump of trees, where Buzz and Terry were attending to Rev, who had his arm in a sling. Price gave a subtle nod toward a spot that overlooked the valley. "Might be a bit more comfortable over there, eh?" Though mentally protesting the additional distance, Soap took his meaning at once; it was about as far away both groups of Americans as they could hope to get. Their best chance for a quiet word. Maybe the last one.

"Where do y'all think you're going?" Buzz asked.

"You forget — Rev's not the only one with injuries," said Price. "Up here there's some moss to sit on, decent cover and we can have a shufty at what's going on below."

"A _what_?"

Price rolled his eyes. "A look around."

"Chill out, Tex," said Soap, as Price helped him ease down into a sitting position. His attempt at mocking the American's drawling Southern accent would have worked so much better if it hadn't come out as a pained groan. "We'll still be in plain sight." Buzz was more interested helping Terry with Rev, so he let them alone.

Sinking into the soft green cloud of moss, Soap collapsed against a tree trunk, despite the likelihood of pine pitch. He was wet, filthy and past caring. Even without the impromptu swim, he'd still be soaked with sweat by now. He felt Price observing his every move, keenly aware of the Old Man's frown of concern and hating that he was once again the cause of it. Once he was settled, Price lowered himself down carefully, the hillside forming a seat for him as he propped one foot against a rock for support.

Pine boughs drooped around them like an umbrella, framing the mountainous expanse beyond. The river was a silvery brown ribbon winding through huge crags of gray stone adorned with patches of evergreen. They could see the bastards now, far below them, like ants crawling over a pile of matchsticks. Soap glanced over at the Delta sniper. Kurt didn't move a muscle, nor did his mates beside him, all eyes trained on the scene below.

"So are we going to wind up on the NDA's funniest home videos or what?" Hagar whispered.

Only Kurt's mouth moved, his cheek glued to his rifle's stock. "They're more interested in helping themselves to our shit."

"Give it a few. They're gonna be in one of ours instead," said Shamrock, placing his radio handset back into its cradle.

"Outstanding," said Hagar.

Price made no further comment, paying them no mind. With his damp, dirty clothes clinging to him, the tails of his flexcuffs sticking wildly out in separate directions, he didn't look anything like a man stripped of his dignity. Far from it. With his cuffed wrists resting on his bent knee, he was surveying the place like it was his domain.

MacTavish closed his eyes. If it weren't for the pain, he could sleep right here.

_Pain is only temporary._

Footsteps marched up alongside him, followed by Terry's backpack hitting the ground. "Okay, MacTavish," he said. "Let's see what's going on with you."

Thankfully, his stint as the main attraction was a brief one. Delta's medic was coldly efficient and professional to the core, unimpressed by much of what he saw. MacTavish lay shivering on a poncho liner spread out on the rocky ground, trying to imagine that he was back in the 141's base infirmary, with all this being done by someone else … right, maybe not. He grunted involuntarily as the medic helped him sit up.

"That looks fine. You'll be fine," said Terry, applying a fresh bandage. "I've even a got dry shirt for you."

"About that," said Soap. "I don't suppose our things made it out of the wreck. Things like my meds."

"No. Here." Terry handed him a small, slim plastic tray.

Soap glanced over at Rev, who rested against a tree with his cap pulled down over his eyes and something white sticking out of his mouth, like he was chewing on a pen. "What's this?"

"Fentanyl lollipop." Terry slung his pack over his shoulder, walking back to check on his other patient. "I trust you'll figure out what to do with it."

"Fair one." Soap peeled back the wrapper, scowling at what looked like a white bullet on a stick. "Never thought I'd miss Misha's bedside manner."

Price chuckled. "Me neither. Get some of that in you."

The thing tasted like strawberries. After a few minutes, the pain began to subside, fading to an almost pleasant dullness. He wasn't too bothered anymore about being wet and cold from the waist down. The tension drained away, he was finally able to relax, even if it was just for a short while. Their pursuers were about to be dealt with, and then they could get off this godforsaken rock. Before long he felt himself drifting in and out, catching whispered bits about the road being blocked, a rockslide and a missed RV -

He jumped at an explosion in the valley below them.

Now that they were far enough away, the Reaper drone didn't disappoint. Debris rained down through the trees, some of it landing on them — MacTavish hoped it was only dirt. The sound of the blast rocketing around the mountainsides marched away to silence. He counted the seconds before the inevitable commentary.

Shamrock whistled between his teeth. "Damn. Was that a tire? Some Wile E. Coyote shit right there."

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of guys," said Atticus.

Price barely reacted, with only a slight narrowing of his gray eyes. He was instead staring down in the opposite direction, with the piercing look that had always instilled equal parts excitement and trepidation.

The bugger had a plan.

Soap took the medicated lollipop out of his mouth and put it back in the packaging.

* * *

All three men thrust out their hands to brace themselves against the rocky walls of the narrow passage, an automatic response to the rumbling beneath them. It felt like an earthquake, but they knew better.

Vadim stopped only for a moment, watching trails of dust, like fine sand in an hourglass, spill into the few shafts of sunlight still penetrating the cavern. " _Polezniye duraki_ ," he muttered under his breath. His sons didn't understand much Russian, nor did he speak it often. Usually when he had a particularly foul oath in mind and any other language wouldn't do.

"What?" Marjan asked behind him, as Mirwais shot him an I-told-you-so look.

"Nothing. Come, they're waiting for us."

* * *

"Exfil's on the way," said Buzz as he took a knee next to Soap, offering him bottle of water. MacTavish wasn't about to argue – he drank it down in one go. "Before you know it, you'll be able to sleep on something resembling an actual bed."

"Oh, that's right," said Price, not turning around. "We come along quietly, cooperate, and the truth will set us free. Whoever said that never embarrassed a superpower."

"What the hell are you babbling about?" Mike asked.

Price kept staring into the distance. "What if that truth is one the World isn't ready to hear?"

"Such as?"

"Like who really started this war." He paused a moment, finally acknowledging the increasingly impatient American, though not enough to satisfy him. "Shepherd— "

Mike took a step toward him. "What about Shepherd?"

Hagar threw up his hands, calling a time-out. "You know what? Right now it would be in your best interest to save your story for the debrief."

"The interrogation, you mean?"

"Take your pick. We lost good men at that bunker, so you'll have to excuse us if we're not in a real understanding kind of mood. Especially not after you cut and ran."

"Kamarov covered for you, the lying _fuck_. Not here now, is he?" Mike asked.

Hagar gave him a sharp look. "All right. We have an LZ to secure. CIA, you're on babysitting duty."

His orders given, he lingered behind, watching Mike and Atticus leave. Taking hold of a tree branch, Hagar levered himself down by one tattooed arm to crouch beside Soap and Price, the intricate image of Thor's hammer emerging from beneath his left sleeve. He was silent for a moment, his bushy auburn beard bristling as his jaw muscles worked beneath. Clearly he hadn't joined them to admire the view. Under different circumstances, that's what they'd be doing with Delta. Discussing their next move, without the unwelcome presence of flexcuffs and an HK416 rudely sticking its camouflaged suppressor into their conversation.

"Just in case you feel like trying your luck out here, a gentle reminder," Hagar said quietly. "Some of these guys just lost close friends, and that kill/capture order on you was never rescinded. If we wind up having to chase your asses down, it might not end well. Choose wisely."

Not quietly enough. "That won't be necessary. Nobody here wants that," said Buzz.

"Sure about that, are you?" Soap called, but Hagar gave no sign of hearing as he strode into the forest. He lowered his voice, causing Price to lean in close to hear him. "So that's why Tall Blond and Ugly's been getting on my tits. Wants an excuse to finish what he started."

"Be a shame to disappoint him," Price murmured. He fussed with his jacket, brushing twigs and pine needles off hopelessly dirty fabric.

"Looks like 'dad' just did that when he sent him to the naughty step. Won't have to worry about him much longer, though." MacTavish sighed. "A cot in the Glasshouse isn't sounding too bad right now, to be honest." A column of thick smoke rose into the sky. What was left of the bridge was on fire. "The Yanks need to sort out that LZ soon— "

Price stopped his preening. "I didn't see the big picture either, not at first." He shook his head slowly, with a wry smile.

MacTavish's mouth went dry.

"Rather, I didn't want to see it. It happens, you get caught up in the moment. Riley, as ever, was spot on. From the moment I knew I was truly free — hanging from that SPIE rig, watching the castle explode beneath my feet, I wanted payback. For myself, for our lads. For what those bastards did to Kamarov's men behind prison walls. Every instinct told me we were about to get played, but I thought I was too clever for that."

Soap looked down at the two CIA SAD officers huddled beneath the trees. Buzz was focused on his injured mate, who dozed against a pile of duffel bags, his red baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. Though he'd dismissed Price's earlier suggestion as fantasy — that they'd be sent to a CIA black site — there was one point the American couldn't deny: that despite their assurances, it ultimately wasn't their decision.

"There's no shortage of good intentions that pave this road," said Price. "These lads might be sincere in their quest for truth. Justice, even. Since when was that ever the first order of business?"

MacTavish felt a new sort of unease in the pit of his stomach. "Damage control. They had the DSM, now they have us... "

"Granting the Agency — and more importantly, their handlers — complete control over whose version of the story is accepted as fact. The power to bring the truth to light," Price's mouth quirked humorlessly. "Or to bury it."

Soap's temporary sense of comfort hadn't just been from relieving his pain. It was the thought of closure _,_ that even though there were difficult days ahead, he'd eventually see his loved ones again. Maybe get a shorter sentence for good behavior — he just had to keep his head down and do as he was bid. Start a new life eventually, though doing what, he had no idea. He'd have plenty of time to think on that one. The daydream flared into a hot nightmare of disbelief, anger … and shame. He'd heard what he'd wanted to hear. Price had been patient, giving him a chance to work it out for himself. But that time was up.

"The Americans are still reeling from the attack. How ready are they to hear that it was their chosen protector who brought war to their very doorstep? How ready is Whitehall to admit they helped make that happen?"

_Or that it was one of theirs that nuked the Eastern Seaboard_ , MacTavish thought.

Price glanced back again, then kept his eyes fixed ahead in order to not attract attention. "They deliver us, everyone gets reassigned, moves on … then what? The myth is so much more palatable than the truth. Britain's hands stay clean; America gets to keep its martyr. Except for one small problem. _No_ hole will be deep enough, or dark enough, to contain what must be kept secret forever."

It had happened to the Loyalists. Heroes of the day, until the political winds shifted. The old occupational hazard.

Shaking his head, Soap barked out a bitter laugh. "I had my picture taken with the _Queen_ , for fuck's sake! It was in the papers when she visited us in Birmingham." As per usual, photography had been tightly controlled, their identities kept secret. "All right, so none of the _Daily Mail_ readers know our names. Others do. That can't be too bloody good for PR, can it?"

MacTavish had never much been into the whole Royal thing, but she'd been very kind when visiting him in hospital, and when he'd finally stood before the diminutive figure in the yellow dress and plumed hat, watching her lift the Victoria Cross from the velvet pillow, it was he who'd felt small. Later, after they'd left the Palace*, he and his family had climbed the Mile to snap photos with the Firth and Edinburgh Castle in the background — his ma had insisted. He'd had to admit, he'd never felt more proud to be Scottish. It was then that she'd told him she wouldn't mind seeing his medals in the Castle someday, but that she'd damn well better not see his name in any of the books.

_Not to worry, ma - that's for those who died honorably._

"Accidents happen, Soap." Price scoffed. "Look what happened to Shepherd."

"Jesus Christ." The radio broadcast in the car with Armaan — just before the signal had been lost, they'd heard a BBC report that Shepherd had died in a helicopter crash. The stage was set then, for whatever version of truth both governments decided upon, the most convenient of which wouldn't include them at all.

For Queen and country.

Soap felt like he would be sick. "What's two more dead bodies when you're already fighting a war based on a lie?" How could he have been so blind — to Shepherd's treachery, and now this? "I wanted to believe it. More fool, me."

"It's hard to let go of hope, especially when you know you've got someone waiting by the phone," said Price gently. "Often it's all we've got left to keep us going. Except sometimes, it's like the wreck of that bridge down there. If we cling to what we think is safe, it can hold us under until we drown." He smoothed the rumpled cuffs of sleeves that were too long for him, a problem worsened by the cloth being wet.

The reason for his denial had been graciously left unspoken, until now. More could have been said, _much_ more, but Old Man had chosen to leave it. Maybe this was his way of communicating that — he continued to fiddle with his jacket as if nothing important had been discussed, though the wretched thing really needed to be binned. This was more like his OC of old, the man they'd joked about both in the Regiment and the 141, the sniper that could crawl through a pile of shit and not have a hair out of place.

He was particularly focused on his sleeves - a little too much, when his eyes weren't darting between MacTavish and the Americans. Stretching out the fabric, attempting to fold them into tight cuffs, which was impossible to accomplish with his hands tied, then deciding it wasn't good enough and starting over. This was OCD even for him. MacTavish had to stop looking, he was getting irritated. There was a time and a place for everything, and he had yet more betrayal and some impending fucking doom to deal with right now.

Well, here was one way to avoid the whole uncomfortable if-you-love-someone-set-them-free speech. He'd never quite worked out what he was going to say to her anyway. What _could_ he say?

Maybe he was an arrogant prick for thinking it necessary in the first place.

"Did that thing work?" Price asked.

"What?"

Again with the sodding sleeves - out, smooth, fold, repeat. A glance at the Americans. Price looked almost … shifty? "You seem to be feeling better. How are you holding up?" The lift of his eyebrows was exaggerated, meaningful.

"Aye, it did. Much better, actually… " Soap hesitated. What _was_ he playing at? "How about yourself, Old Man? Your near miss seems to have brought you back to life in more ways that one."

"Me?" Price pushed back the edge of one sleeve, just long enough to give MacTavish a good look at the hilt of the knife hidden beneath. "I'm feeling lucky."

* * *

**-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-**

* * *

**The Glasshouse** \- The Military Corrective Training Centre in Colchester, England. The UK's only military prison.

***The Palace of Holyroodhouse** \- Official residence of the British monarch in Edinburgh, Scotland. Used by Queen Elizabeth for a week each summer in order to carry out official engagements such as investitures.

**Polezniye duraki** (полезные дураки) – 'useful idiots'


	25. The Redoubt

Eyes to optics, bellies to the ground, Delta were taking in a classic sight. In Afghanistan, anyway. A long, squat dwelling of mud and stone, the narrow dark holes of windows like slitted eyes peering suspiciously back at them. No movement, human or animal, had been observed.

"What do you suppose the chances are of that being a dry hole?" Hagar whispered.

"Fair to middling at best," Atticus replied, even more quietly.

"Chances of being an ambush?"

"Excellent."

"Rule number nine." Terry shrugged at the blank looks. "Murphy's laws of combat."

"Jupiter says nothing doing," hissed Shamrock. "No hotspots other than the one down by the river."

Hagar glanced at his mates lying alongside him. "…Suggestions?"

* * *

The door swung open — carefully, quietly. The stack of men charged into room, peeling off in separate directions. Rifles tucked into their shoulders, both eyes open, looking through the red dots of their holographic sights. Pivoting left, right, back again with clockwork precision, pushing quickly forward. Smooth and silent, with only a rustle of clothing and equipment, boots tapping the earthen floor. Communicating only via handsignals, a touch on the shoulder, a nod. Flowing through the crude structure as they had many times before, in many countries, in a procedure so practiced it had become automatic.

It was over in 30 seconds. The place was empty.

"No weapons, ammunition or first aid," said Terry, examining a small camp stove. Accompanying him in the front room was Mike, who rummaged through a technicolor pile of folded blankets sitting on one of the six short four-poster beds seen in any Afghan dwelling. They were arranged around another common feature: a Persian carpet with a simple red and black pattern, most likely where meals were taken. In the far right corner was a set of stone stairs leading to an underground chamber, where the darkness flickered from Shamrock's gun-mounted light.

"Pantry's down here," he called.

"Ugh," Mike backed away from the stairwell, making a face. "Smells like crotch!"

" _Your_ crotch, maybe."

Hagar joined Shamrock, his own SureFire's cone of bright white traveling down the uneven steps ahead of him. It flashed across metal shelving units holding various hand tools, batteries, pots and pans, big gold-colored cans of cooking oil. Prepackaged food and liter bottles of water set on the shelves of an old half-height dark wooden bookcase pushed against the far wall. Once elegant and stylish, a relic from someone's office or library, from better times. " _Phew_ ," Hagar wrinkled his nose. "What _is_ that?"

"Their cook is so fired," said Shamrock, shining his light on a moldy crateful of former vegetables. "Everybody knows you don't store potatoes and onions together."

"Most of this stuff looks fairly new," said Hagar. He popped the lid off a clear plastic tub containing a colorful assortment of packaged dry food, illuminating a bright yellow box of soup concentrate labeled in both English and Arabic script. "Dated this year."

"Place is definitely still in use. For what, though?" asked Shamrock. "Guerrilla hideout, tribe guarding its land…" His light moved over stone arches and thick timbers. "Stout construction. Between that, the limited approachability and excellent lines of sight, I'd say it's well-suited for both."

"So far, so good. Kurt and Atticus haven't seen anything, drone says all's quiet," said Terry.

"Whatever," said Hagar, climbing the steps with Shamrock close behind. "Nobody's home, and we need to get the fuck out of here. It's only a matter of time before more trouble finds us."

"Ain't that the truth," said Mike, stepping aside to make room for them. The floor squeaked beneath his foot. Everyone fell silent.

When they peeled the carpet back in a single motion, four rifles swung down to point at a trapdoor.

* * *

As Price settled his sleeve back over the concealed knife, Soap's eyes darted between everything but that and the Americans. He leaned back against the tree, mentally ticking off the possibilities. They were all shite — not that it had ever stopped the Old Man.

"Learnt that trick in prison, did you?"

"If that were the case, it would have been stashed somewhere else."

MacTavish chuckled, mostly in despair. Price had gotten his sense of humor back - they were proper fucked, all right. Just like old times. "Zakhaev, Shepherd … how is it that we put these bastards down, yet they still manage to have the last word?"

"Seems like it, eh? The amused crinkle around Price's eyes faded, the momentary warmth draining from his expression. "One thing I did learn in prison: there's always a choice. I'd rather die on my feet than on my knees."

"Oh mate," MacTavish shook his head, his chest heavy with regret. "Let's be honest here. At best, I'd slow you down — _at best_. I've done that too much already."

"Bollocks. We do a runner, follow the river, find shelter with some locals."

"Fuck's sake, man - just go. I don't know how much longer I'm going to _be_ on my feet."

The argument worked about as well as it ever did. "Long enough. It's both of us, or none of us."

It came out as a whispered sigh. "Shite."

"Once that chopper gets here, our chances run out."

Simon's cockney accent rang out in Soap's head. _You already saved the world, yeah? What more do you want?_

_About that drink, mate…_ His gaze drifted upward, though he knew he wouldn't be able see the drone prowling high above. More odds stacked against them, but not impossible.

Elsewhere, under the same sky, life went on. In Credenhill, where Stirling Lines squatted deep in a quiet maze of hedgerows, tucked away in a vast rolling green checkerboard of fields and orchards. Where bicyclists and joggers orbited the tall fence bristling with razor wire and guard dog warning signs like it didn't exist. Even if he survived this, he'd never pass through those gates again.

A few miles down the road in Hereford, where a text message to 'meet me by the bull' had meant many an epic piss-up with the Regiment lads and the occasional confrontation outside the pub afterward. Sometimes with a local loudmouth, sometimes with each other.

In Elgin, where his family still slept, enjoying a Sunday morning lie-in before late mass at Saint Sylvester's. He hoped someday they'd understand.

In Birmingham … he wondered how she was faring. If anyone _could_ understand, she would.

The clouds were gone now. The higher he looked, the deeper the blue. Eternal witness to stunning natural beauty and base human ugliness.

_Aye, it's me again. I know I've not been much of a churchgoing man for a long time. Do Christmas and Easter to please my ma — Toad called me a 'submarine Catholic' because I surface twice a year. Guilty as charged. Any road, if you're still listening … watch over them for me._

"So what's it to be, then? You up for one more go?"

Price had never given up on him, even when he'd been ready to give up on himself. There was no question.

Except maybe one. "Wait a minute." Soap frowned. "Isn't it 'I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees'?"

"Do you mind?" Price gave him the same withering look that had rendered so many Regimental newcomers to jelly. The very first one he'd ever given MacTavish. He shook his head, affronted. "Let us have our moment, will you?"

MacTavish's snort of laughter died abruptly at the approach of Mike and Atticus.

"Enjoyed the show, I take it? Us too," Atticus called to them. "Since nobody's home upstairs, and our downstairs neighbors have had a sudden change of heart, it's time to move up and wait for exfil. Forty-five minutes, and we're outta here." He swept his upturned palms in the air, indicating that they should rise. "Gentlemen, after you."

* * *

Grime etched Delta's weary faces, their weapons, the sodden remains of their muddied Afghan garb barely covering modern ballistic vests and gear. Though they were looking as frayed as their clothing, they weren't any less switched on. With the objective finally in sight, their voices were hushed, heads and weapons constantly swiveling, covering every angle. Exfil was the most dangerous part of a mission, and this one was more uncertain than most.

High on the pinnacle, the crude stronghold sat tucked into the mountainside, making for quite an excellent defensive position. There was a fair level of camouflage to it, with piles of stones and brush covering the exterior. The flat roof was covered with grassy turf, accessible by a long, rickety-looking wooden ladder. The largest patch of level ground for miles, and not much at that. But it _was_ large enough to accommodate the arse end of a Chinook.

"Rather convenient," Price muttered aloud.

"What's that?" Mike asked, closing what precious distance remained between them. Brilliant. One thing was for sure: no matter what drama unfolded in the next half hour, Price could at least look forward to being free of this wanker's company.

The bastard was huge, taller than Hagar — at least six-four, and wider, especially across his back and shoulders. Price estimated him at 15 stone; well over 250 pounds, probably closer to 275. _Top-heavy build, spotty face, delightful personality_ … _steroids, most likely,_ he thought. _Someone probably had to take the football out of his hand before they stuck an Armalite in it._

"By the way, sorry to interrupt before… " Eyes never leaving his gunsights, Mike paused, withholding the punch line until Price looked at him wearily. "Not really. You and your BFF were getting way too cozy back there. Should've separated you right off the bat, but you'll have to excuse us, we're a little short on manpower."

_So we've bloody noticed._ Price knew better than to say _that_ one aloud, since he and Soap had contributed to the problem, now their sole advantage. Only six of Delta's team remained, and they'd need every man to secure the LZ. This meant once again being guarded by Buzz and Rev.

Once that happened, a distraction of some sort would be critical. Just long enough for Price's hidden blade to free their hands, then they'd have to move quickly. Both the CIA men were armed, though Rev would be easier to overpower. When it came to that, Price hoped they'd have the good sense to stand down.

He'd shared a look with MacTavish as they'd dragged him off. The lad was ready when he was.

"Anyhoo, you were saying?"

"Cut off from your QRF, driven uphill by a seemingly vanquished enemy, to this vacant mountain redoubt that just happens to be the only suitable LZ in the area," said Price. He turned to Hagar. "That was far too easy, don't you think?"

"Yeah. Actually, I do." Hagar's rifle swept slowly back and forth, his rolling footsteps careful and deliberate, creeping up gray stairstep layers of rock with surprising agility despite being tall and stocky himself. "Whoever blew up that bridge, they had us dead to rights."

"Didn't work out so well for them, did it?" Mike asked. "We're still here, they're fish food."

"After spilling us in the drink, they should have been on us like flies on shit."

"They got all distracted by the shiny things we left behind. That's the trouble with kids today – no attention span."

"Amateurs. Cannon fodder, even. The job on the bridge, that was professional. The effect was spot on, the timing precise," said Price. Hagar nodded.

"Yeah … yeah, it was. Gotta give you that one." Mike stopped, frowning back down the hill. "They're lagging behind." Reaching for his left shoulder, he keyed his radio. "What's the holdup?"

Price couldn't hear the response, but neither looked best pleased about it.

"Go check it out," said Hagar.

They caught an occasional glimpse, each smaller than the last, of Mike's reddish turban winding its way back down the serpentine path beneath them, through the nests of boulders snuggled between islands of trees and brush. In the river far below, a crooked finger of thin smoke still curled from the wreckage of the drone strike.

"What if we were meant to come up here?" Price asked.

Hagar's auburn beard jutted out thoughtfully. "I'd say I like the way you think," he said. "Except I'd be lying."

* * *

The opiate fog in MacTavish's head had burned off more quickly than expected. Even in his current state, nothing energized him quite like not knowing when or how it would all kick off.

After years of fighting alongside Price, a sixth sense had developed between them, one that had saved them more than once. He had no choice but to trust in it, that he'd be able to act quickly enough at the critical moment. If it even came at all. Soap couldn't see Price right now; they'd been separated, well-guarded by much fitter blokes that were running out of incentives to keep them alive.

To Delta, he and Price were traitors of the worst sort. He couldn't blame them. But what really sharpened the edge of their bitter resentment, of their profound disappointment, was what they _didn't_ yet know, making it cut deeper still: that one of their fallen mates hadn't been just another battlefield death. That had been Rerun's angle when he'd taken aim at Price, forcing MacTavish into that fateful decision. Regrettable, but necessary, and maybe not a mystery for long. Apart from what the Apaches' cameras might have captured, these lads had a sixth sense of their own. Some more than others. Mike certainly seemed to have made up his mind. If he learned that the AK-47 round had in fact been Soap's, what then?

Even so, that wasn't what truly condemned them. The truth about Shepherd, the very thing they'd risked their lives for, would spell their ignominious end. The secret they harbored was far too volatile. In less than half an hour, a chopper would whisk them away to parts unknown, to their guaranteed silence. They had to escape. But when? How? Maybe never? Time was running out. Direct confrontation with this lot would prove disastrous; if they tried bringing a knife to a gunfight, they were dead.

He had yet to see anywhere to run. The mountain itself was not unlike a fortress, inaccessible from any other direction. So far, they were on the only trail, caught between solid rock on their left and steep dropoffs on their right, highly visible by anyone at the summit. They were ascending beyond the tree line, any remaining concealment becoming increasingly scant and intermittent. This didn't bode well for any sort of escape plan.

It was happening already. The pain was creeping back, making it more difficult to breathe. Slowing his steps. Though the brief respite had helped, MacTavish's body threatened to betray him again soon.

He couldn't allow it. He wouldn't. If he did, they would both die on this remote mountain, their remains and their secrets swept under the rug forever — Shepherd's will be done. That's what lay in wait at the end of this trail: the same end by different means.

That wasn't what he truly feared, the dying. Not when they'd gone after Shepherd, and not now. It was just part of the business, expecting to meet an eventual bullet or explosive with your name on it. Anyone worried about that shite might as well be stocking shelves at Asda. The men beside you, that's what this was all about. Your mates. That's who you kept sticking your neck out for — not for some political agenda, not some fairy tale of good and evil. To fail them was unthinkable.

But deep down, he knew he couldn't do what Price was asking. After all the times Price had pushed him past what he'd thought were his limits, he understood what they truly were. He wasn't going to make it.

If at least Price managed to give them the slip, then it wouldn't have been for nothing. On his own terms, on his own time, the truth could still be known. MacTavish didn't have much left in him, but what he did have, he would give. Would it be enough?

Shafts of sunlight stabbed through a few gnarled branches overhead, dazzling him. He blinked at the spots swelling across his vision, but they multiplied like rising bubbles, his exhaustion pulling him downward. He felt himself swaying.

"Whoa… whoa!" Atticus grabbed him from behind, guiding him away from the edge. Soap slumped against the cliff face, the rock cool against his rumpled forehead and bound hands. "You all right?" he heard Terry ask.

"Aye," he panted. "Just give me a minute, will you?" _Fuck me, not yet._ At this rate, he might not even make it to the top. The pain in his gut was getting steadily worse, all the movement and the functions of his own body pulling at the healing wounds. He was pretty sure he knew the location of every suture now, at every layer. The shakes were back too. Oh, joy.

The graying knot of Atticus's hair was becoming unraveled, wet strands plastered to his neck. He tugged at his sweat stained shemagh, frowning. "We're seriously exposed out here."

"I know, I know." _Pain is only temporary._ Soap took a few deep breaths, letting it pass. "All right." MacTavish took a tentative step forward, focusing his full attention on where he put his feet. The longer the journey took, the longer they stood out on the mostly barren hillside like bollocks on a bulldog—

"Quit stalling, MacTavish."

Speaking of bollocks, Mike now stood in front of him, a scowl further contorting his ugly red face. Soap felt the best way to improve it would be a nice fresh bootprint, Shepherd-style.

"What happened to your lollipop?" Terry asked.

"In my pocket, waiting to get back on level ground," said Soap. "I'm dizzy enough as it is. If I fall, might take one of you with me."

"As much as we appreciate the consideration, you need to suck it up. Almost there, then you can rest, and I can give you a pain shot if you want."

"Aww, that sounds really nice, Terry," said Mike. "Better than he deserves. C'mon MacTavish. Don't make _me_ get persuasive."

Soap's pace quickened with his temper. "A bit rocky for that, isn't it?" His eyebrows shot up at Mike's puzzled look. "Rather rough on the knees."

Delta's normally taciturn medic chuckled a bit at that. Mike wasn't quite as amused.

"Spoken like a true expert," said Mike, lisping slightly from the lump of tobacco crammed in his lower lip. "I wouldn't dream of competing with your girlfriend up there." A sharp curve of the trail brought Price and the others back into distant view. "There he is. Let me guess — you hate to see him go, but you love to watch him leave. Is that a look of longing I see? Ooh … _that_ wasn't"

Soap rolled his eyes. If this was a tactic to get him to move faster, it was working.

"Seriously, though, hope you said your goodbyes. Where you're going, you probably won't have a whole lot of company, at least not the kind you want." Mike shrugged. "At least you'll have some privacy now and then. The painted windows do provide a certain-" he wagged his head for emphasis " - _ambiance._ If you're a good boy, you might even get your very own floor drain." He spat, a brown splotch just missing MacTavish's boot. "Ever hear of the Salt Pit?"

Soap cocked an eyebrow. No, but this cocksplat probably never heard of Long Lartin either. There were much darker places for those the British government didn't quite know what to do with, but wanted to punish all the same.

"Call me an optimist, but personally I'm hoping for extradition."

MacTavish almost laughed in his face. There was some wishful thinking, even more than his previous comment about the Glasshouse. Since Shepherd's death had officially been ruled accidental, they could look forward to a very quiet 'retirement'. The coldest of comforts. "Right, then — you're an optimist."

"Mike," said Atticus, ending the exchange just as they caught up with Buzz. Mike took the hint and shut it.

"Everything all right?" Buzz asked.

"Yep," said Mike, spitting off to the side this time, putting some space between himself and the CIA man. _No love lost there,_ thought MacTavish, thankful for tender mercies. He didn't think he could take the two of them at once _. It's like a relay race for arseholes._

His pulse quickening, he pretended not to notice the goat path that veered off the to the left, spiraling down through scrub and boulders to who knew where. _Out of here, that would be a start._ Except for the bit about being surrounded. Price would have seen it, though he was just as helpless to do anything about it. MacTavish tensed at Buzz's grip on his shoulder, accompanied by some whispered close-and-personal advice: "Don't get any ideas, son. Not everyone's as understanding as we are. We might not be able to protect you if ya'll do something rash."

"Really, mate, like that's even an option?" A few steps more, and it was out of sight.

"Remember, we've got eyes overhead to help find you, should you happen to get lost."

MacTavish gave him a disinterested glance before nodding in Mike's direction. "Or in case _ya'll_ do something rash?"

Either that shut him up, or Buzz was more interested in what was being said behind them. Atticus spoke softly into his radio, briefly pausing for responses that Soap could only guess at. "What's their ETA? All right. They'd better stay sharp. Out."

No trace of disappointment, meaning the helo was on schedule. It wouldn't be long now, with hope and their only escape route dwindling away behind them.

"Oi — what's with him?" Soap asked. There was a huddle ahead, with Rev crouched on the ground.

"Aw, what the fuck now?" Mike slung his rifle behind him as he stormed off, followed by Buzz.

Atticus let out a heavy sigh, nudging MacTavish onward. "C'mon."

The trail ahead wasn't any wider, yet half the group was gathered around Rev, including Price. Rev was conscious and talking, his pale face looking pinched as he clutched his broken arm, now bound to his side.

MacTavish caught a whiff of sulfur. There was a cave here somewhere.

"Here - park it." Atticus pointed Soap toward a cluster of boulders that rose up along the right side of the path, interrupting the line of open sky and providing a natural barrier against sudden death. Gripping a crooked tree root that hung out of the rocks, Buzz stepped aside to let Terry have a look, lowering himself down along the mountain's face, bracing his feet along a flat ledge below.

Soap felt the ground moving beneath him before he saw it and leapt aside to safety, clinging to the solid wall of stone. Loose shingle shifted and dissolved beneath Buzz in a cloud of dust, a hole yawning open to swallow him, the root yanked from his hand. With a yell, he disappeared into the ground.

* * *

The chopper flew nap-of-the-earth, its jagged shadow shimmering against the rumpled patchwork rising and falling beneath the Blackhawk and its gunship escort, their haste barely allowing a proper glimpse of what lay below. Tiered green farmland and brown rivers, still heavy with silt from the recent rain, sped by.

With a last-minute call to action, they were currently the only option for exfil. The Delta team along with their 'package' was stuck out in the open in broad daylight, in hostile territory. They'd be happy to see them, and no mistake. Though if they got in and out without someone taking a shot at them, it would be a miracle.

* * *

A burst of damp air cooled MacTavish's face. Several feet down the slope, Buzz hung partially suspended by the strap of his duffel bag with his arms and legs stuck out, bracing himself from falling further into a deep, rocky well. The bag had caught on a jagged stone, saving him in the process, though it also kept him from climbing out.

"Buzz? Buzz!" Some of the Delta boys had to hold Rev back.

"He's alive," said Atticus, who stuck close to Terry and MacTavish, keeping his distance from the edge.

The path was now even narrower, some of it having followed Buzz's plunge downhill. "I'm all right," he drawled, heavy breathing halting his calm words, the sounds echoing in the well beneath him. "Though I would greatly appreciate if you could get me the hell out of here."

Delta were already at work on that one. They were all action plans, carabiners and knotted bights of rope somehow produced from their meager 'go-bags'. _Paid attention in mountain warfare training, this lot did._ As much as the thought pained him, Soap's own training took over: best to keep the victim talking. "Looks like you've discovered some sort of hidden airshaft, mate."

Buzz's muffled response issued forth from the hole. "Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious."

Price offered another, far more unsettling observation. "Where there's one, it's safe to assume there's another. For all we know, we could be standing over a bloody rabbit warren."

Too right they could. After being chased up here, and their pursuers literally disappearing in a puff of smoke… Soap felt the hair on his arms prickling, and not just from the cold breath of the cave. But no one else had paid Price's comment any mind. Even the ones who'd been watching their six were involved in the rescue attempt. If not actively, then offering suggestions or reassurance. This was fucking bad. These lads knew better. The military leader in him began to open his mouth—

—and shut it again. No one was paying attention to Price at all. The Old Man had been left standing on the far edge of the trail, from where they'd just came. The way was clear.

Trapped between their captors and the rock at his back, there would be no escape, not for MacTavish. Price didn't move, his conflicted gray eyes darting between Soap and the men who surrounded him.

Like five years ago on the burning bridge, when Price had slid him the pistol, nothing more needed to be said. It was time. _His_ time now. MacTavish gave Price a subtle nod. _Go._

Price's brow creased, looking to Soap, the way out, and back again.

"Gotcha, " Shamrock said. "Hold on." The mostly human chain grunted, limbs and ropes pulling taut.

For the love of Christ! This was it. This or nothing. The Americans were distracted, but only for the moment. Soap didn't dare risk more eye contact than hurried glances, mute while wanting to scream at him: _Run! Go! For fuck's sake - leg it, Price!_

For the first time, Buzz sounded worried. "Don't cut it!"

"What do you mean, don't cut it - it's the bag or you," said Shamrock.

"We can't lose this. It's too important."

"We'll lose it and you both!"

"It's not up for discussion," said Hagar. "Do it."

The same look of defeat was coming over the Old Man that he'd had when Vadim had confronted them. Something Soap had never wanted to see again.

"Grab him, I got the bag," said Mike, jiggling the cut strap in an attempt to free the snagged duffel.

"No — wait," said Buzz, looking back as he emerged from the hole.

As the bag tore, Mike yanked it up, but not fast enough to prevent some of its heavier contents from spilling out. "Oops!" A water bottle bounced out of sight, followed by the DSM, which slid out of its plastic bag, cartwheeling into a rock. Its case split open with a flash of shiny green circuit boards, a shower of broken electronic components glittering away into the black hole. Soap could hear its pieces breaking into smaller pieces with each strike against the rocks, until he stopped hearing it.

"Fuck!" Now back on solid ground, Buzz slammed his fist against it. He rolled onto his back, chest heaving. "Fuck," he whispered.

"Well ain't that a B," said Mike, leaning dangerously over the pit, but fate was never that kind. "Wasn't that - " he turned to look for Price. "And just where the hell do you think you're going?"

Price stood staring past the black plastic flexcuffs encircling his wrists at the would-be escape route, down at what could have been. "Nowhere."

MacTavish closed his eyes, wishing away what he'd just seen. Any hope of redemption from the DSM data was gone now, if there'd ever been any. Shepherd's lie would outlive them both, the ink already drying on his false history. All they'd done was for nothing.

"A better question is, what are you still doing here? Should've scampered while you had the chance." Mike glanced in Soap's direction. "Ohh. _I_ see how it is. That's so sweet," he smirked, grabbing Price by the elbow. "Really, I'm touched,"

MacTavish never pictured ending his military career quite like this. Disavowed, dishonored. Their victories would fade in the shadow of their disgrace, by crimes they were as good as convicted of. Remembrance Day would never be the same for his family, and by association, not for the families of their fallen men.

"Get over here. So tell me," said Mike conversationally, dragging Price back to the group. "Who pitches, and who catches?" Soap couldn't bring himself to look at either one of them.

"All right, MacTavish." Terry helped him up.

With both their M4s slung behind him, Buzz threw Rev's good arm over his shoulder to steady him as they made their final ascent. "C'mon partner, it's almost beer-thirty."

"You trying to jinx us?" Rev asked. "Fat lady hasn't sung yet."

"Well at least let me warm up first," Buzz replied, with no attempt to smile at his own flat joke. Terry slapped the side of his own neck, examining the results in his hand. Fighting his growing dizziness, MacTavish bent his head to his forearm, trying to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Even the fittest among them was out of breath. The redoubt loomed large above them like a skull, seeming to laugh at their struggle to climb the final steep switchback.

The relief was palpable when they reached it at last. Its thick outer walls made for ideal cover in a gunfight. Pockmarks indicated it had seen a few over the years. Shamrock awaited them in the doorway.

"Honey, I'm home," said Mike.

Inside the dark, cavelike front room was an open hatch in the floor, a sheet of plywood and a rumpled Persian carpet lying beside it. "Wha'd'ya'll find there?" asked Buzz.

"Tunnel, goes out to that path we saw earlier. In case you need to exit stage right," said Kurt, standing guard outside with Atticus while the others were made their way to the rooftop.

"Detainees," Mike jabbed a finger at the two beds nearest a set of steps that led to a lower chamber. "Sit. Think you can handle them for fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah, we got it," said Rev, with thinly-disguised irritation. With a groan, he lowered himself onto one of the beds near the entrance, taking his rifle back from Buzz. Holding it by the pistol grip, he balanced it across his lap, pointing in Soap and Price's direction.

* * *

"What do you think Soap, an accident?"

Beneath the baggy sleeve of his green Russian army jacket, the knife blade was cold against the skin of Price's forearm, waiting for him to slip the hilt out into his palm. That would be the easy bit. "A long car ride to nowhere? After we're left to rot awhile in some covert shithole, long enough for the debate to die down and for World to forget about us?"

Sitting with his feet up on the bed, cuffed hands resting on his bent knees, MacTavish gave a half-hearted scoff. "Shouldn't take long. Just one Facebook outrage away."

"Too right. The Romans never dreamed of bread and circuses such as these." The place stank of damp wool, paraffin and wood smoke, but with a much fouler undertone that Price couldn't quite identify.

"Will you two give it a rest? You're making my headache worse," said Rev. He was fighting weariness, his hazel eyes wandering occasionally. The backwards red baseball cap was jammed over the bandage encircling his head, complimenting the faint bloodstains. Dizzy from the knock to the head, Rev had almost fallen off the cliff. On top of that, Price wondered how much of the fentanyl was still floating around in his system, dulling his senses and slowing his reaction time. In the span of two heartbeats, he could close the distance between them. The American's rifle wouldn't help him then.

"The DSM - it's gone. Smashed to bits," said MacTavish. "Now it's our word against Shepherd's. How do you suppose that's going to turn out?"

"Doesn't matter anyway," said Price. "Never did. I'm sorry, mate." Hearing genuine despair in MacTavish's voice, he willed Soap to look at him. _Come on, son — show me you're still with me._

Let the Americans think them broken and defeated. All he needed was one opportune moment. It wouldn't be one of his prouder ones. They weren't bad blokes. They'd just all been dealt a bad hand.

"It _did_ matter. There's still good guys at the Agency, ones that need to hear what you have to say," said Buzz.

More tripe. Price wasn't interested. "That won't be enough." Even if they pulled it off, if they didn't manage to get into some locals' good graces, they weren't long for the world. There were two basic means of persuasion. Yet they had no money, and a gun was a poor long-term strategy here, since if they brought their hosts dishonor, they wouldn't last the day.

"You have a better chance with us than off the grid." Buzz poked around the room, examining its contents.

"I'm sure you believe that."

But rules were rules, and if they could manage to communicate their plea for asylum before they were killed outright, it would be a start. After all, Makarov had managed to survive his time here. _Not long on charm, that one_ , Price mused. It made him wonder further about any local contacts — of either Zakhaev or his twisted scion, though Vadim had made it clear he wasn't one of their cronies. Perhaps it hadn't always been so.

"You know what the bounty is on you? A million," said Rev.

"That's it?" Soap asked. Their eyes finally met, sending a secret burst of adrenaline through Price. The lad was switched on, all right.

"Too many cowboys out there with too little to do except hunt you down. It'll get old fast," said Buzz.

"Like your story," said MacTavish. "You can stop pissing in our ear now."

"Fine." Buzz threw up his hands, hefting his M4 and switching on his WeaponLight. He began to descend the steps, pulling a face as he did so.

"It's not like you have a choice," said Rev. "Did you really think you were just going to walk away from this?"

"A funny thing, truth. Everyone wants it until they actually get it," said Price. He sat hunched over the side of the low bed, eyes downcast to his bound hands. It would make him appear thoughtful, resigned to his fate perhaps, while better able to conceal his weapon. "Had you really thought this one through in the first place, what the reaction would ultimately be? I'll admit I didn't. More than stopping his lie, I wanted him dead more than anything, and once I got what I wanted... " He rotated his cuffed wrists, trying to bring some circulation back into his hands. The sharp steel edge caught his skin, threatening to bite and reveal its presence in blood. "This war began with a slaughter of innocents, pinned on America. The Russians invade, Britain and the EU rally to America's cause, with the rest of NATO not far behind. When Shepherd the savior turns out to be Shepherd the traitor, one of the greatest history has ever seen, what else does that prove — that the Russians were right? That's rather messy, isn't it?"

"Well it's not like it would ever reach the public," said Buzz, halfway down the stairs.

"You'd like to think so. But secrets aren't quite what they used to be, eh? In this day and age, they have a way of being leaked when it's convenient. A scapegoat is found, then it's back to tea and medals. Shepherd didn't operate in a vacuum. That blank check came from some rather powerful people. The last thing they need is any of this dirt on them. Have you considered what it might mean for the two of you?"

"We'll be off a few Christmas card lists - a few more, anyway… Buzz stiffened, his head cocked. "Shh." He held up a finger, pointing his rifle down into the cellar below. He crept down a step, then another.

Grimacing, Rev stood up. He leaned toward the stairwell, listening. His eyebrows shot up. He heard it too. Tilting his head, he gestured with his M4 to Soap and Price, making it clear he wasn't leaving them up here unguarded. At gunpoint, he herded them both down the steps, into the stinking dark.

"In the corner," Rev whispered. A quick sweep of his SureFire revealed the cellar's layout: a short bookcase piled with nonperishable food, shelving loaded with supplies and a minging gray blob in a vegetable crate, the source of the rotten stench.

Following instructions, Price crowded up alongside Soap next to the shelves. There were tools here that could serve as makeshift weapons, but it would take a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the dark — a few minutes too long.

Both torches followed the noise, an insistent _scritch scritch scritch_ from beneath the bookcase … or was it from behind?

"Some kind of animal," whispered Rev. The scratching turning to a scraping sound. Gnawing. "Some kind of rodent." He took a step back, glancing at the stairs behind him.

"Probably just a mouse."

"Mouse, my ass. That's a rat. Man I hate those things."

The coolness of the knife hilt settled against the heel of Price's hand, just inside his cuff.

"So what's it doing back there?" hissed Buzz. He carefully removed the plastic tubs of food, setting them aside. There was no hole in the bookcase itself. Slinging his rifle out the way, he pulled a small LED torch from his vest pocket and lay down to shine the light underneath it, shaking his head as he quickly got back on his feet.

The far wall was awash in illumination from the two torches and the dim column of light spilling down the steps. The rear of the chamber between the shelves and the stairwell, however, was cloaked in shadow. Perfect. Price rotated his hand, wiggled his fingers. The knife began to inch its way out, too slowly for his liking. He wiggled faster.

Buzz pressed his cheek against the stone blocks, aiming his torch alongside it, craning his head downward. "There's something back here. It's colder in this corner. Can't you feel the draft? C'mon man, don't be such a wuss."

Rev tentatively stepped forward, gun at low ready, while Buzz took hold of the bookcase.

The hilt slid into Price's palm. He curled his fingers round it, easing the blade out further … he nudged Soap with his elbow, feeling him tense up in response.

"Ready?" Buzz whispered. Rev nodded.

There was no going back now. _I'm sorry lads, I truly am. But better you than us._

With a screech of wood across the stone floor, they all leapt back at once.

* * *

The more uneventful their approach, the more uneasy the Blackhawk's occupants became. The land's appearance was changing beneath them, the terrain roughening, rising. Trees were becoming more numerous, darkening in color. Patches of gray stone became more frequent, growing into cliffs and crags, until it looked like the skin of the land was being pulled away, exposing the rocky skeleton within.

The warning came through their headsets: "Ten minutes."

* * *

The chamber reverberated with Buzz's barely-contained laughter.

Price's knife, held flat against the back of his arm, was barely concealed. He pretended to cower behind MacTavish.

"That was quite a dance you just did. Hell, them too," he said, indicating Soap and Price.

"Fuck you," Rev grunted painfully from the relative safety of his perch atop the bookcase, shining his light on the small brown rodent near the base of the steps. It reared up on its hind legs, whiskers wiggling, sniffing the air. "Told you it was a rat."

His fun over, Buzz crouched to squint into the long, low opening in the wall. "What've we got here?" The beam of his torch lit up a short passage into what looked like a underground tunnel. "No shit. Bring your light over here."

Hampered by his immobilized arm, Rev crouched down alongside him for a look, momentarily forgetting about the rat — and their detainees. Gripping the knife at last, Price began to creep forward when Soap grabbed his arm, giving it an urgent squeeze. The rat hadn't fled as expected. It wobbled in a lazy circle and fell twitching on its side, its tail writhing snakelike around it.

"Whoa… I don't feel so—" Rev crumpled to the ground.

"Rev? Hey!" Buzz shook him, then stopped. He turned to Soap and Price, who now stood by the steps, poised to spring. But his stunned look wasn't about them. He tried to stand and failed, grabbing a nearby chair for support, his urgent warning a weak whisper.

"They got us. Run. Get out … now." He collapsed.

* * *

Price previously hadn't thought it possible to hold one's breath while flying up the steps, two at a time — or to not loudly resume breathing while coming to an abrupt halt at the top. He threw a bound fist up beside him, turning to see MacTavish's grim nod of acknowledgement. An armed shadow lay long across the ground in front of the redoubt's open door, barring their escape. Soap jerked his head toward the rear of the room. They backed away from the windows, quickly creeping along the shadows of the back wall, Price scooping up Buzz's duffel on the way. One after the other, they both dropped silently into the open trapdoor.

As they fled through the black tunnel, the bright pinpoint at its far end growing larger, Price's mind raced along with them. Were the spooks dead, or dying? Was it from a naturally occurring underground gas, or something far more sinister? Had they been poisoned? Did he and Soap get exposed to it as well, enough to be harmful?

_Shit_ … whatever Buzz and Rev had inhaled, was it heavier than air? Could it be down here too? If so, it was already too late. There was no holding one's breath on this mad dash. Well, they were still upright, weren't they?

Their boots didn't stop pounding the ground until they stood blinking in the sunlight. Price cut through Soap's flexcuffs. MacTavish, looking more alert than he had in some time, returned the favor. They'd both be fine, Price decided, with some fresh air and distance between themselves and the Americans.

They'd found themselves in a tight maze of tall boulders surrounded with prickly brush, enough to put off the less determined. They both crouched down, looking and listening. A short goat path lay before them, presumably meandering down to the one they'd seen earlier — Kurt had said that's where this went. A look around showed steep rock face rising high overhead on either side of them. A few patches of stunted trees lay before them. They could see blue sky through the branches where a steep dropoff lay about 10 meters away from the camouflaged tunnel entrance. The tunnel had deposited them right alongside the mountain's opposite edge, hopefully far enough away from the LZ and with enough cover to elude both the eyes on the ground and those aboard the inbound aircraft that would arrive any moment.

Once they were satisfied there was no one nearby, MacTavish spun the blade around, offering Price the hilt.

"Don't you want your knife back, Soap?" Price whispered.

Examining it, MacTavish chuckled in recognition. "Aye." He stashed the knife in his boot, nodding at the duffel bag dangling from the cut strap in Price's hand. "See what you got for Halloween, I'll have a quick recce."

"Right." Price unzipped the duffel. The hole in one end had been patched with a thick layer of duct tape. It would be an encumbrance unless he could find a way to refasten the strap. Since the Americans hadn't managed it, there likely wasn't one. He swore under his breath. There wasn't much of use left inside. Mostly Buzz's dirty laundry, a spare Glock magazine full of .40 S&W. He pulled a face. _As useful as a chocolate teapot._ He did find a water bottle and a couple of protein bars, at least. He pocketed those. His head throbbed, but that had been a daily occurrence since his concussion. Just more of the same old annoyance, nothing to worry about. He'd feel better once they got moving.

Soap reappeared with a whispered sitrep. "A two-foot-wide ledge - your favorite. Three, four meters maybe. Looks like clear sailing after that." He squinted at Price. "Find anything good?"

"Not really. Go on, I'm right behind you."

Time to bugger off, sharpish. But the bag had felt heavier than these few odds and sods. As MacTavish disappeared back around the bend of the trail, Price probed the wad of clothing one last time, and nearly cursed aloud in surprise. The bundle of fabric had been wrapped tightly around his 1911.

No ammo, but he wasn't about to leave it behind. Removing it from the plastic bag, he stood and reached around to stuff it into the back of his waistband—

"Drop it, or I'll drop you."

Price froze. The pistol clunked into the dirt behind him as he slowly raised his hands.

"What did you do," Mike growled, taking aim with his HK416, his voice exploding in a shout. " _WHAT DID YOU DO TO THEM?_ "

"Nothing," Price breathed, knowing that's what stood in this bastard's way now — nothing. He could only hope that Soap would do the sensible thing and leg it. He would stall for time as long as he could. "Rev fell unconscious. Buzz told us to get out. We just ran."

"You just ran." Mike nodded sarcastically. "Like you did at Hotel Bravo? Lost a couple friends there. When you two showed up."

"Shepherd blew the place sky high, fast movers bombed what was left — "

"Shut the fuck up!" Mike thrust the rifle into his face. Price squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. With a pull of the trigger he'd be gone in an instant, along with most of his head. Growing dizzy, he forced himself to open them again. He felt, then heard a distant pattering, fading in and out.

"Where's MacTavish?"

"Long gone, I hope," said Price loudly, hoping Soap would get the message.

"Bullshit." He spun Price around by the shoulder, marching him toward the clump of trees lining the cliff. "MacTavish," he called. "I know you're there. I've got Price, and if you know what's good for him, you'd better come out – _now_."

The pattering sound was becoming solid, real.

"Capture or kill, MacTavish. Our orders, your choice. Trust me, I'm fine with dead." Mike shoved Price forward, a few steps closer to the blue sky that waited just beyond the branches. Price heard a rattle behind him, sensing the rifle aimed at his back.

Mike lowered his voice so only Price could hear. "I don't know what sort of sick shit they did to you in that gulag to make you play for the other team, and I don't fuckin' care."

Soap had to be watching. Others would be here any moment, then it would be all over. As far as Price was concerned, it was – for himself. He'd said he'd not be recaptured, and he'd meant it. The slow fade just wasn't his style. But that wasn't how this would play out, not if this Yank had his way.

"Fresh out of flexcuffs, are you?" It wasn't about taking him prisoner. It was about making this look good.

Ignoring Price, Mike raised his voice again, ending on a singsong note. "You know, once he hits the bottom of that canyon, actual cause of death ain't gonna matter much. It's a long way down."

The bastard wanted Soap to have a go at him, so he could slot him as well. Even if he didn't take the bait, he'd be rumbled if he hung about much longer. Though very slim, the lad still had a chance to get out of this. There was only one way to ensure he'd take it.

_It's been an honor._

"So what are you waiting for then?" He spun around to face Mike, who tensed in surprise, glaring at him from behind the red lens of his Aimpoint. "Already tried once, didn't you? Oh yeah" he nodded. "You're not the only one." Mike's eyes narrowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, to see if anyone was watching. Price shook his head, disgusted. " _Other_ team _?_ We're on the same fucking side! Your hero, Shepherd? _He's_ the one who killed your mates at Hotel Bravo. His own men. Why do you think that is?" Hands still aloft, Price stepped toward him, Mike's finger tightening on the trigger.

_Just get it over with, you twat._

"That airstrike wasn't an accidental blue-on-blue. He _gave_ the _order_. He started this entire thing, to get the war he wanted. The airport attack? He was in on it. He's in bed with Makarov, and when we got too close to the truth, he killed our whole team to cover it up. We're all that's left." The throbbing in Price's head, along with the dizziness, was different this time. He was starting to feel odd, confused. "Why do you think they want us in cold storage _so_ badly?"

The bewilderment in Mike's eyes flamed out almost immediately, a dangerous calm taking its place. "All I know is, anywhere you two go, my buddies wind up smoked. Lost another one just recently. He was last seen with you, in fact. Just before you and uhh…" Mike blinked, losing his train of thought. "… Armaan disappeared."

Price had an acrid chemical taste in his mouth, as if he were exhaling toxic fumes. He had to focus on getting the words out. "I didn't do it."

"Do…WHAT? What didn't you do, you son of a bitch?" Price staggered backward, the ground seeming to heave up beneath him. He recalled seeing a small hill, the last barrier before the trees and ground all came to an end. This must be it. The HK416's flash hider followed, wobbling a couple feet from his nose. "One minute, Josh is with you, the next minute, he's fucking dead."

Price's lips and fingertips were going numb. Alarm bells were screaming in the back of his mind, but the immediate threat was right in his face, demanding an answer. He had to concentrate long enough to give one. "He was shot, right next to me."

"No … shit… " Mike was huffing and puffing like a drunk about to be sick. "These fuckers blaze away … full auto at the drop of a hat … God's will if they actually hit something." He blinked rapidly and shook his head, shaking it off. "Right next to you? Should have stitched you both." Swaying, Mike lurched toward him.

Backing away, Price tripped over something and fell right on his arse. Strangely, it didn't hurt too much. The same obstacle sent Mike sprawling facefirst, his rifle landing somewhere behind him.

The pattering sound became a steady thump, then a thrumming chorus: choppers on approach.

Mike was almost on his feet. Price half-lunged, half-fell at him. The punch didn't quite land where he wanted, his knuckles glancing off bone. But it did knock Mike off balance. Ignoring the dull jolt of pain shooting up his arm, Price dove for Mike's holster. He kept reaching, the Glock kept twisting away as they grappled, Mike's powerful legs bulldozing Price backward until they were a rolling, grunting tangle on the ground, kicking up dust.

They crashed through a thicket, broken branches scratching and stabbing them. Mike slammed Price onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. Price curled up and blasted his heels into Mike's oncoming midsection. They both lay wheezing in the dirt. Recovering first, Mike crawled on his hands and knees, struggling to get up.

Dimly, Price realized what they'd tripped over. A body.

MacTavish lay on his side, motionless, one arm flung out over his head.

No matter how he tried, Price couldn't seem to get his feet beneath him. His limbs felt heavy and difficult to move. "S-Soap? S-suh…"

Lumbering toward him on all fours, Mike clamped a meaty hand around Price's throat, dragging him toward the edge of the cliff.

Heels digging, knees twisting, Price tore at Mike's fingers, trying to pry them away. But it did nothing, his attempts swatted aside with ease. He felt like he was wearing mittens. The ground fell away beneath his shoulders, his head hanging over empty air, while Mike's bloodied face blurred and swam in front of him.

Between skill and his greater size, he had Price well pinned down now, rendering him almost immobile. Price splayed his one free hand out, pushing hard against Mike's jaw, fingers sliding over greasy pockmarked skin to dig at his eyes. Shrugging that off as well, Mike responded by leaning his weight into Price's throat and reaching for his pistol.

Price could barely hear him now — the ground vibrated with the choppers' impending arrival. "His head was blown off," Mike said, scrunching his face up and opening his angry eyes wide. "You were left untouched." The Glock's threaded barrel pressed a hard circle into Price's forehead. "Why is that, Price?"

Price couldn't answer. He was gasping for air, struggling and kicking, his attacker not bothered in the least. No one was going to stop this. No one would see or hear what was about to happen. It wouldn't matter now if he'd screamed at the top of his lungs. The fluttering roar filled his head, thumped in his chest.

An Apache rose up out of the canyon behind them, blotting out the sky. The M230 chain gun mounted on its chin turret swiveled toward them as it passed overhead, sweeping away over the mountaintop.

The gun at his forehead wiggled and clattered aside. The hand around his throat relaxed, allowing Price a partial breath before crushing pain as Mike slumped down on top of him, squeezing out what precious air he'd managed to draw in.

They were lying now, cheek to cheek, on the edge of the precipice. He squirmed, punching and clawing, once again fighting to breathe. Completely unresponsive, Mike snored in his ear, loudly enough to be detected over the aircraft noise. The bulky American's dead weight was pressing down on Price's injured ribs, squeezing more air out of him with every exhalation.

He strained with everything he had, over and over, but Mike's inert form wouldn't budge. Price felt himself fading with every attempt. His remaining strength, his will to fight, his consciousness — they were all leaving him.

The roar softened to a hum, not unpleasant. His pain and desperation were giving way to a warm, fuzzy euphoria. His eyes were getting heavy, they didn't want to stay open. That was all right, though. He'd done his utmost, with his best friend beside him. That was enough, all anyone could expect of him.

Thoughts themselves were a struggle to form, becoming difficult to grasp, like leaves swirling in the wind. With great effort, he was able to work out one last thing: that even out cold, Mike might manage to kill him anyhow. _Sod's law. What a way to go…_

A shadow fell over him. Price felt the crushing weight being lifted away while gray unfocused images played themselves out before him, like he was watching a blurry old film. An arm wrapped around Mike's chin, wrenching his head back. A fist smashed down on his collarbone with a sharp twist. Mike gurgled, warm liquid splattering Price's face, then fell away.

The ground slid back beneath him, solid and reassuring as the air returning to his starved lungs. Someone stared down at him from on high. Some _thing,_ a dark figure with bulbous eyes and a long snout. A black elephant-headed creature. Price was unsure if it was real or imagined. There were others. They reached for him. "N-nn…" Price mumbled, trying to push them away. They grabbed his arm, pulling him up, and the dim world flipped upside down.

* * *

Reaching the grid location, the Apaches circled round, threatening anyone brazen enough try their luck. The Blackhawk flared over the LZ, tiny figures spread out in a circle below. With the drab clothing of locals but the discipline of soldiers they knelt on one knee, guns pointed outward, while one waved the orange VS-17 signal panel. The rotor wash blasted back the yellowing grasses, and all disappeared into the dust cloud.

* * *

In the redoubt's lower chamber, the bookcase slid back into place, its contents returned to their original arrangement. It looked undisturbed once more, except for the bodies of the two Americans lying before it.

Back on their shelf, the water in the bottles rocked gently back and forth.

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

**Armalite –** Blanket term for the rifle platform based on this company's original design, most commonly chambered in 5.56 mm. Known colloquially in the US as an AR (Armalite Rifle).

**Asda –** The British version of Wal-Mart, owned by the same company.

**Paraffin -** Kerosene


	26. Badal, Part 1

 

Price wasn't entirely sure which way was up.

In a dim halo of light that swung back and forth, a set of boots was walking over his head, so that seemed to be down.

Someone's arm was hanging too, the limp hand waving goodbye with every step the boots took. Vaguely he wondered if the hand was his. He couldn't feel his fingers, so he gave them an experimental wiggle. One moved a bit.

It was dark here, cool and damp. Faint light cast hulking shadows on rugged stone walls. There was muttering in a language he didn't understand. The world spun and tilted again, making him feel sick. Hard coldness pressed into his back, with more of the same strange babble from the gloom.

The next words spoken were ones he _did_ understand. The gravelly voice with the thick accent was one he somehow recognized, bringing with it a dread like he hadn't felt since Petropavlosk, urging him awake _. Come on, snap out of it! Now!_

A blinding whiteness, followed by blackest black.

* * *

Strange voices in the dark.

Buzz couldn't see, couldn't move. The voices chattered among themselves. The ground beneath him was hard and ice-cold against the side of his face, until it was grabbed by a warm hand. Squeezing his cheeks, bowing his lips, turning his head up. One of the voices changed, the accent distinctly Russian.

"Your money's even better the second time around." Chuckling, the hand let his face roll back against the ground. The voices trailed away, leaving him to sleep in silence.

Time passed — he didn't know how long —until all-encompassing noise enveloped him, vibrating through his body. A familiar sound, accompanied by the familiar smell of jet fuel. He sensed he was on his back now. The hand had returned to slap insistently at his face.

A different voice this time. The first thing that registered was a cockney accent. Inside his head.

"Wakey wakey. Come on, then"

He blinked, blinded by what had to be daylight, though the first thing he saw was the ceiling of a chopper. A bar overhead for hooking in missing seats, a fire extinguisher in the corner near the window. Two gunners. Blackhawk. The voice was coming through the headset stuck over his ears.

A black nitrile glove reached down to slap him again, causing him to look to his left, up at the owner, also wearing a headset.

"Oi - what's this geezer's name — Buzz. Buzz!" Commanded the freckly, red-haired, blue-eyed man with the generous five o'clock shadow. He wore a gray t-shirt and a Rhodesian vest sporting a name tag patch that simply said BLUE and a button with the picture of a googly-eyed, furry blue monster with horns, something from a kids' movie. No patches to indicate affiliation, but it wasn't too hard to give a rough guess. There was a medical-looking tattoo on his bicep, something with a coiled snake and a crown. But regular Royal Army, this guy was not. Not anymore.

"Yeah… " His mouth and throat felt like he'd been drinking sawdust. Beside him, the man's unzipped backpack loomed large in his vision. Shears, hemostats, airways and other medical paraphernalia sat firmly suspended in loops of black elastic over a large wad of plastic and foil packets threatening to spill out. Craning his head to look past it, he could see Rev lying on a stretcher next to his. He looked like he was asleep, until he opened his eyes for a few seconds, then decided it wasn't worth the trouble. IV tubing dangled down next to him. Buzz guessed they'd finally given him something good. 'Vitamin K' maybe.

Buzz wasn't feeling quite so good. He swallowed back his increasing nausea. Clear tubing trailed upward across the corner of his vision as well. "What … what is this? What did you give me?"

"Narcan. Call it an educated guess," Blue shrugged. "Your eyes were like piss-holes in the snow."

A dark-haired face with a neatly-trimmed beard leaned into his from the opposite side. Cuts and bruises from a recent beating surrounded a startling pair of pale green eyes, narrowed in anger.

"Remember me, you cunt?" Armaan snarled. "Where are they? Wake up! Answer me!"

"I … I don't know."

"Fucking useless."

"Right. Now that we've got that out the way, let's sit you up. Tiny, give us hand, will you?" Blue and another Brit grabbed Buzz under his arms. "This bus is about to get really crowded." Armaan lifted his head, and Buzz turned to see what he was looking at. Terry and Atticus were lifting a black body bag into the chopper.

Live bodies were piling in after them. The remaining members of the Delta team crowded inside the almost overloaded Blackhawk, with no shortage of unkind glances in Armaan's direction before turning their backs on him, legs hanging out the open doors, guns up. The change in mood and manner was unmistakable. Someone was missing. Mike. The big one in need of the attitude adjustment.

They steered Buzz into one of the seats lining the aircraft's back wall. "C'mon mate, you too," said Blue. 'Tiny', a linebacker-sized guy with 80-grit stubble, a silver-topped buzz cut and an extensive tattoo collection helped Rev into the seat next to his, holding the IV bag up out of the way, while Shamrock folded and stashed the stretchers. "I doubt there's anyone on this bird that you like _that_ much."

Hagar climbed aboard, working his way over to them. He took the headset from Blue.

"What happened?" Buzz asked.

"Seven men down, and Operation Icarus is a failure, that's what. Your bag had a knife in it, did it not?"

Buzz glanced over at long mound of black vinyl lying on the floor. " …that doesn't mean they're the ones that did it. What happened to us, they definitely didn't do that."

"The bag's gone and so are they. We found a hidden entrance into what looks like a cave network."

Buzz nodded carefully, trying to not give himself motion sickness. "We got suckered. Someone was waiting for us there."

"They could have been taken," said Armaan.

Hagar shot him a look indicating that he had a whole hell of a lot more to say about that. "If they were, they're on their own. We've lost enough guys." Handing the headset back, he stepped forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder, pointing at the ceiling, twirling his hand. The dull green helmet nodded, turning to receive a matching nod from the copilot's seat. The engines screamed, and the Blackhawk lifted off.

* * *

Deep underground in the dark tunnel, a small group of shadows whispered amongst themselves in Pashto. Torchlight swung back and forth, as did the gas masks at their belts.

"Time to wake them up," said Vadim.

"About time, I'm sick of carrying him," said Marjan. He'd needed help carrying the bigger one with the mohawk.

"All right, this is good." Marjan grunted, crouching slowly down. "Careful now." Vadim reached out to assist him, taking hold of MacTavish beneath his limp arms as he slid from Marjan's shoulders, his legs giving way beneath him. They both lowered him gently to the ground. "The merchandise is damaged enough."

An LED lantern clicked on, making their cargo's unconscious faces look ghostly gray.

Mirwais pulled one of a pair of syringes from his vest pocket. "In the muscle. This will take a few minutes."

"Even better."

While Mirwais crouched down next to Price, Vadim took hold of his jaw, while Marjan aimed the light at his face. Vadim frowned, though it wasn't all the scabbed cuts, mottled green and brown bruising or the split lip that bothered him. "This won't do at all, better get him cleaned up." He tore a strip of cloth from Price's shirt, swishing it in a puddle on the tunnel floor. "As for you, my friend," he said in English, mopping the dried streaks of the American's blood from Price's face. "You're not the one I want." Price's gray eyes fluttered halfway open, pinpoint pupils wandering in a vain attempt to focus on the voice in front of him. While Mirwais made his way over to MacTavish, Vadim thumbed on his smartphone's video camera. "You never were."

After a moment, the steady light shining on MacTavish's face went out, Vadim slipping the phone back into his pocket. He had what he needed. "Mustn't keep our clients waiting."

* * *

Armaan held on to one of the straps on the airframe's ceiling, looking out the window. Blue and Tiny's faces were as grim as Delta's, watching the same thing: the grassy square on the mountaintop shrinking out of sight, their hopes abandoned along with two of their countrymen — one a former teammate.

_I'm so sorry, Price._

Any chance they might have had to make a difference in Price and MacTavish's fate was gone. Now the one they faced might be infinitely worse. At best, abandoned in a harsh wilderness. At worst, captured and tortured by the hostile forces that roamed this isolated region, who'd cut off their escape with a rockslide and chased them up the mountain. If that's who had them now, deep in those caves, some future archeologist had a better chance of finding their bodies than Armaan's team ever would. The Yanks were right, of course. No way could they risk getting sucked into that.

Had his attempt to ride the fence between his command and his history with Price ultimately doomed them? He'd tried to get to them before the Americans, tried to warn Price of what awaited them in the safe house without openly defying the change in orders he'd wanted nothing to do with, using hints only known to the two of them. Both attempts had ended in failure. Price was resilient, if he was anything. But it would take the last of his nine lives to see them through this.

* * *

Screaming in his mate's ear wasn't what Kurt would call an intimate conversation. However, the noise aboard the chopper made it so. He crouched next to Terry, who they'd strapped in a seat after he'd gotten a snootful of whatever the CIA had. "Hey - you all right?"

Terry hadn't lost consciousness, but he'd been pretty woozy, to the point where they'd made him sit down and leave the medic duties to the Brits. He hadn't been too happy about that. That was before they'd found Mike's body. Terry was wide awake now, his deep-set blue eyes bright with cold fury.

"Behind the collarbone, into the heart - that was a Roman execution."

Kurt nodded. He'd be more than happy to mete out some justice of his own. He reached into a pocket, unfolding the bloodstained boonie hat they'd found in the road next to the burning car. "A soldier's death is more than those two deserve."

"If the NDA took 'em, that's definitely not what they're going to get."

* * *

The moment he came to his senses, Price launched himself at the dim figure in front of him.

The man dropped his torch, which rolled across the ground. Shouts erupted around him, not all of them in English. Other torches flickered around cave walls, other hands grabbing hold of him.

"Price! Hey!"

" _Stuy, stuy!"_

"That's enough!"

A familiar Scottish groan stopped him. "Price… "

The torch rolled to a stop in front of MacTavish, who sat on the ground with his back against the wall, cradling his head in his hands.

Price stopped struggling. "Soap? Who's there?"

The man in front of him let go with a sigh. "Nobody, really." Torchlight traveled up a pair of brown Carhartt trousers, over a dark fleece jacket, landing on a familiar face. Puggish features, graying short brown hair with a shaved patch around the neat line of stitches just above his ear, plus a few days' growth of stubble to compliment the goatee they'd taken the piss out of him for. "Just same guys who are always saving your asses," said Nikolai.

* * *

"Apologies for the precautions. A man like me in a place like this has interests to protect – you understand."

The client grunted, focused on keeping his footing. He'd reluctantly agreed to close the deal alone while his men accompanied Vadim's to accept delivery. 'Vasily' was the name he'd given. Vadim had to suppress a smirk at his lack of imagination.

Warmth, daylight and the generator's hum had long since faded away, replaced by the cool humidity and absolute darkness of deep underground, with the scuffing of their boots and the occasional drip of water cutting through near absolute silence. "Watch your step," said Vadim, reaching out to steady himself against the narrow passage's wall, shining his light on the steepening downward curve of ground ahead. "I'd glad we agreed on the price," he continued in Russian. He'd spoken nothing but Pashto for so long that his native tongue felt awkward, sounding rusty to his own ears. "There was one customer that might have deeper pockets, but I didn't especially care to find out."

"Makarov?"

"Even _I_ have standards, my friend. You are the company you keep, after all. Ah, here we are." Vadim led the way through another short passage and into the small chamber, wrinkling his nose at the strong but not unpleasant scent of cloves that hung in the man's worn leather jacket with the sheepskin collar. "We will wait here. Past this point, things get … confusing. There's also the matter of the remaining payment."

Vadim switched on a few work lamps strung along the room, the sudden light making them both throw up a protective hand over their faces. As the tall, broad man with the thick reddish-blond hair lowered his hand from his gray eyes, Vadim had to concentrate hard not to show his excitement. He'd told his sons it might be the same man, but what were the chances, really? It had all been worth the risk. The name he remembered like it was yesterday, and he never forgot a face. It _was_ him - he was sure of it now. _Kamarov._

Nodding, Kamarov set the black duffel bag he'd been carrying on the gray steel worktable in the corner of the room. "Thirty percent up front, thirty now, the rest on delivery."

"That is _not_ what we agreed."

"Plus some extra for _your_ understanding."

Giving him a look of cool annoyance, Vadim opened it, examining the thick stacks of American dollars which he knew were courtesy of the CIA. He'd seen quite a few of these, especially since hostilities between Russia and the West began to smolder with the new Ultranationalist leadership. "But that is also not unreasonable." As much as he'd like to inform his men waiting topside with the vehicles that there was a considerable sum of money likely standing right next to them, he had no way of knowing who might understand Pashto, and how much — including Kamarov. One had to take care not to make the wrong impression. "Very well." He zipped it shut and fetched an airtight plastic box from the narrow shelving unit along the wall. There was a tea kettle here, with a gas burner. On with the formalities. "Please," he indicated a couple of aged office chairs scattered around the room. "Won't you sit down?"

Kamarov remained standing, looking at him warily. Vadim ignored it, rummaging through the box. "I must admit, my curiosity got the best of me when I heard rumors of another _Afghanets_ with business here — word _does_ get around - one accompanied by a considerable number of men." Examining the interior of the kettle before filling it from a water jug, Vadim gave him a sly quirk of an eyebrow. "But that's classified, I'm sure. Understandable. Though you must be curious about me as well."

"A little — "

"But of course. You need proof. That was rude of me." He dug a hand in his jacket pocket, offering the pistol butt first. Recognition lit Kamarov's face at the scratched black frame with the 'beavertail' grip safety and the plain brown grip panels, the halfmoon-shaped chrome trigger, the engraving of the rearing horse with the arrows — so stereotypically American, this old thing. An unusual choice for a UK special forces man. "You can give this back to him when you see him."

Kamarov was about to speak again, but Vadim already had his phone out, silencing the oncoming objection. There would be more in a second. Kamarov's expression hardened in anger at the video, the camera panning between the dazed, torchlit faces of Price and MacTavish. "What have you done?"

Vadim shrugged. "Killing a man is easy. Keeping him alive — that's much trickier, isn't it? And neither of us needs any dead Americans to complicate matters, yes?" Regrettably a true statement, but Kamarov didn't need to know about the soldier they'd left on on the cliff, whose blood might still be streaming out over the edge and into the canyon for all he knew. Not that it mattered. Even if he'd been found immediately, there would have been no saving him. "Under those conditions, I'm afraid my repertoire is rather limited."

"What did you give them?"

" _Hypnos_."

Kamarov's eyes widened. "That's —"

"Come a long way. Refinements in both the gas itself and its delivery. They'll be fine. The only problem we might have is that the drug tends to outlast the antidote." He took back his smartphone and pocketed it. "Tea?"

* * *

Price staggered; standing up had clearly been the wrong thing to do. Nikolai and someone else reached out to catch him. In a dim flash of torchlight Price recognized Arytom, another of Kamarov's Russians from the bunker. In the darkness behind them, a radio squawked in Pashto. Doing his best to hold up the wall, Price fought the urge to vomit on their shoes.

"Easy, sit back down a moment," said Nikolai. They lowered Price back to the ground, where he curled up like MacTavish was, sat with his head between his knees.

"This has to be the worst stag party ever," Soap said into his folded arms. "But seriously mate, I've never been so happy to see anyone."

"I know." If anyone did, it was Nikolai.

"I could kiss you. C'mere." Soap waved a beckoning hand, still not ready to lift his head up. "Give us a hug."

"That … will not be necessary."

"All right, Old Man?"

" _Mmph_." Price's stomach was doing cartwheels. "Same as you, just not feeling quite as romantic. Nikolai, how did you find us?" he asked, experimentally opening one eye and wincing, punished by his pounding headache. "Where the hell are we?" From the damp smell and what little he'd managed to see, he guessed this was the cave network the CIA had discovered the secret entrance to.

"Paktia, not too far from the border." Price nodded. Between the changing geography and the direction the Yanks had taken them in, it made sense. Then it would have been a short flight to Pakistan, to any number of destinations, none of which sold postcards. "Kamarov got word you'd been captured, from someone willing to make a deal. With the right money, you can buy just about anything here." Nikolai chuckled. "Even you."

"As someone else so kindly pointed out, we're more popular than ever. Except you probably paid too much — we're way past our sell-by date."

"We almost missed you altogether, the call came at the last minute. We've evacuated the base, moving on to the next phase now. We can't wait any longer. Things are heating up, my friends — on a global scale. The UK expelled all its Russian diplomats, now others in the EU are starting to do the same."

Soap groaned. "We put out one fire, and an even bigger one sparks up."

"I'm afraid so."

“Right,” MacTavish sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and through his mohawk.“I’ve had about enough of waking up in strange places, all bog-eyed and feeling rough as a badger’s arse.”

Price shot him a quick, albeit painful look. " _You?"_

"It's a side effect from the antidote, it will wear off," said Nikolai.

"Antidote?" Price pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to both get his bearings and remember the last time he didn't feel like shit. "To what?"

"The sleep gas. Same thing Russian special forces use."

The dizziness, the bug-eyed elephant faces … men with gas masks. Lying on his back, helpless and unable to move. Sudden, painfully bright light. Disjointed flashes of memory were starting to come back to Price now, along with the nagging frustration of what wouldn't. It was typical of many such drugs, the sleep of forgetfulness. Someone had spoken to him, a voice he somehow knew yet couldn't quite place. What the hell had they said? Yet another in a flurry of questions. But Soap beat him to it, a blue eye opening over his forearm to zero in on him.

"Whatever happened to tall, blond and gruesome? I saw he had you cornered, but it was lights out after that."

"They killed him… " Turning his head hurt, but Price ignored it, stunned at the thought. A brutal hand-to-hand wasn't the Russian pilot's style at all. "Nikolai … you didn't?"

Soap echoed his disbelief. "Nikolai killed Mike?"

Nikolai frowned. "I didn't kill anyone. Who's Mike?"

"The Delta lad," said Price. "The big one."

Nikolai's expression rose and fell; recognition and realization. The dismayed look he shared with Arytom made a few things immediately obvious: they'd believed this had been a completely nonlethal takedown; killing Americans wasn't what they'd signed up for. Then they hadn't done the CIA lads either — maybe Buzz and Rev were still alive, but it didn't look good for them, if Mike's fate were any indication.

"Well if you lot didn't kill him, then who did?"

That radio he'd heard a few minutes ago had gone silent.

Nikolai and Arytom both turned round at the same time, their torches piercing the misty dark of an empty tunnel. " _Ey!_ " Nikolai called, making a query in Russian. No one replied. "Where'd they go?"

* * *

When Vadim had excused himself to step out into the main corridor to radio for a status, Kamarov had taken the opportunity to quickly relocate the PSS pistol hidden in his boot to his jacket pocket. Part of the bargain had been to approach unarmed. He'd decided appearances would have to do.

He'd also decided to take advantage of the ill will Vadim had recently caused with some of the locals — their sons had gone to work for him and had never returned. So they'd been perfectly happy to supply Kamarov with information on the cave network here. He'd sent some of his men ahead to covertly establish overwatch and a perimeter.

Some had questioned it, taking yet another risk for these two disgraced _britansy_ ; they'd already jeopardized a long and beneficial relationship for their sake. They'd be on their own this time, with no help from the Americans.

Nikolai had taken particular exception to this — Price hadn't left _him_ behind, end of discussion. As for Kamarov, yes, he kept sticking his neck out.

He still had much to atone for.

He'd picked up his teacup just in time. Vadim was back, a small yellow two-way radio in his hand. "Apologies, there's no reception in this room. Your friends are a little groggy, but they should arrive in a few minutes." He pocketed the handset, returning his attention to his teacup. "Now, to satisfy your curiosity about myself … the best way to put it? I wasn't quite as dead as previously thought. But," he stirred plenty of sugar into his steaming cup. "I'm getting ahead of myself. Have to start at the beginning." He took a drink. "The _dedovshchina_ , that's a fact of life in the Army, of course."

Having refused the offer of sugar, Kamarov took a polite but bitter sip. _"_ In some units more than others _._ We were either too busy or too tired for such things."

"Ah. You were lucky, then." Vadim shrugged. No he wasn't - it meant he hadn't been regular army. More evidence this was the right man. "In most armies, hazing is merely a rite of passage. To be expected. But in the later years of the war, when morale was at its lowest, it became much more extreme. Chores and pushups grew into beatings, humiliation … and more. Like you'd encounter in a prison. Indeed, in my unit, that was where some of them had come from in order to fill the ranks. They'd lost some men recently — the reason for my transfer there, which I later learned had been due to desertion.

"I was the newest, so the senior soldiers, the _dedy,_ they made life my life hell. I'd spent most of my young life in an orphanage, so apart from giving them their due as seniors, there was only so much I would tolerate. I knew how to deal with bullies, trust me. Except for one problem: I was quite outnumbered. It merely seemed to amuse our commanding officer. Power corrupts, so does boredom. So does frustration. We were supposed to be fighting side by side, as brothers, yet we seemed to mostly fight each other."

Sipping his tea, Kamarov nodded. It had only gotten worse after the fall of the Soviet Union.

"Our objective was to take control of a road vital to the Army's eventual retreat from the country. For the moment, it belonged to a particular tribe. I was told more 'diplomatic methods' had failed, so we were to go on the offensive. The night before we were to attack their village, the _dedy_ … took things a bit too far."

Kamarov waited for Vadim to elaborate, but it was clear he wasn't about to. This was personal.

"I fought them, and was soundly beaten while our commander, Kozlov, was nowhere to be found."

Kamarov was careful to not show any reaction at the commander's name, one synonymous with cruelty and incompetence. He simply nodded, encouraging Vadim to continue. His own unit had to go clean up some of the messes Kozlov had left behind.

"One _chainik_ nicknamed 'Rhino' — he certainly looked like one — was really enjoying himself; the others had to pull him off me before he did any lasting damage. We were about to engage the enemy, yet I didn't look like much to be afraid of. I looked a lot like your British friends, actually." He chuckled, holding up a hand. "Don't worry - they're fine. In a few minutes, you'll see for yourself.

"Kozlov sent me and Yevgeny, another junior soldier, to take point. Well … the villagers, we sorely underestimated them, and brother, they took it to us. We were forced to retreat. In the chaos, we realized we'd gotten separated. That was the last thing I remember, since that's when Yevgeny stepped on a mine."

Kamarov held his cup steady as Vadim served him the last of the tea. "Sorry it's not Vodka. As you might guess, I don't drink anymore." Kamarov watched him return the teapot to the burner, guessing this was the source of the older man's slight limp.

"I don't know how long I lay there before I woke up in agony, roasting in the hot sun. Woke up screaming, or least I thought I did. The truth of it was, I was whimpering like a dog. The cloud of flies around my dead comrade made more noise. We'd been left behind. Perhaps they'd thought we'd deserted as well.

"The crows were gathering, ready to peck out my eyes. But they weren't crows after all. They were tribesmen, standing all around me, ready to cut my throat. That's when I recalled what we'd been taught about their code of honor, and used one of the only words of theirs that I knew: _nanawatai_. Sanctuary."

* * *

The Old Man's question — _Well if you lot didn't kill him, then who did?_ — hung in the humid air, in the sudden absence of whomever had led Arytom and Nikolai here. Though Soap wasn't exactly sorry at the news of Mike's passing, this wasn't a good sign. Price tried standing again, more slowly this time, Nikolai taking his arm to support him. "Is that who just buggered off?"

"Nikolai, you said Kamarov made a deal for us. Deal with who?" MacTavish asked, getting his feet beneath him now that his head was spinning at a less nauseating rate. It had just been replaced by a different sort of sickening feeling.

"Guy who'd been working with the Americans, local mafia," said Arytom, with an impatient attempt at helping MacTavish stand, distracted by the disappearance of whoever it was. "Looks kind of like James Bond."

Soap grabbed his arm. "Which one?"

"The good one," said Arytom, annoyed, pulling away to storm off after them.

"Fuck's sake - could you be a bit more specific please?"

Nikolai's torch followed Arytom down the manmade tunnel cut through the rock, with rows of wire and conduit strung along near the ceiling. Shored up with support beams at regular intervals, it was around five feet wide and not quite seven feet tall. Arytom's torchlight faded around a corner and disappeared.

" _Which one_ , Nikolai?"

"The … older one?" Nikolai's brow furrowed in suspicion.

"Sean Connery? _Vadim?_ "

That got the Old Man's head up. "Kamarov made a bloody deal with _him?"_

Nikolai threw up his hands. "You want me to give you back?"

"Guess who sold us to the Americans in the first go-round?"

Nikolai's head rolled back, no tranlastion needed. " _Yebat."_

"Brilliant. Can we go to Africa now?" Soap asked.

"At this point I'd settle for being above ground." Price clapped a hand on a worried-looking Nikolai's shoulder. "Though don't get us wrong, mate. It _is_ good to see you."

"Even if our joyful reunion is fast turning into a right gangfuck."

"… and good to see things are getting back to normal."

A soft, distant _boom_ echoed back through the tunnel.

* * *

"They saved you." Kamarov was fascinated in spite of himself.

Vadim nodded. "People call this country a lawless place. Tribal duty and honor, that is law here. The chief himself saw that I was cared for, though I was too injured to know it."

"In a _kishlak_? By rights, you should be dead."

"Certainly. I wasn't expected to survive. My recovery took a long time. Really puts things in perspective, when you don't have the strength to wipe your own ass." His dark eyes crinkling with wry amusement, Vadim held his cup up in a toast before taking a sip.

"Others wanted him to cast me out. They had their reasons — Kozlov had given them plenty. I'd already witnessed some of it first hand. Looting, burning, killing their animals for spite, that sort of thing. His failed attempt at 'diplomacy' had been the day he'd caught one of the men from the village and demanded to know who had been taking potshots at us. When the man said he didn't know, Kozlov forced the rest of the villagers to watch as he had him run over by a tank.

"It was inevitable that the Soviets would be back. I hoped it wasn't going to be in the form of an aerial assault, that somehow ground troops would rescue me and put me on a helicopter to Tashkent." He shook his head. "I got my wish - partially.

"The time finally came when I woke to a commotion. It was a pre-dawn raid! I still needed help getting out of bed, so I lay there, listening. I soon heard their voices, their laughter — it was my unit. I waited, but they never entered the room, so I called out. They didn't hear. This was it, I told myself — I must ignore the pain and move. I fell out of bed and began to crawl.

"I called to them again, but as I got closer, my voice was drowned out by the screams of women and children. Then I stopped and wondered what they might do to me if I revealed myself to them now. Many were hooligans long before they'd been in the Army. Now they were like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They'd left me for dead, and here I was, accepting aid from the enemy, dressed like one of them. Would they even let me speak one word before pulling the trigger?

"There was gunfire and shouts — they'd been discovered. But it sounded like they'd prevailed. The shooting stopped, I heard their voices fading; they were leaving! Now was my last chance, I had to risk it. I dragged myself in there, finally struggling to my feet, and saw what they'd been up to. It disgusted me, so much that I do not wish to repeat it.

"One fool was so caught up in what he was doing, he'd been left behind while the fighting continued outside. He didn't notice me. The girl was perhaps twelve, thirteen. She wasn't moving any more, but that didn't stop him. As I picked up his rifle, I realized it was Rhino! I shouted his name. Predictably, his reaction was less than cordial, once he got over his surprise.

"'You little bitch. I knew it,' he said, and went for his pistol just as tribesmen burst through the door. He turned to fire on them, but I fired first, and he collapsed on top of her. A moment later, so did I."

* * *

"They locked us in!" Arytom jogged back down the tunnel toward them. "Get up - move!"

Price didn't need any extra encouragement at this point, he just had to concentrate on not wobbling as he took a few careful steps. MacTavish was right alongside him, the group already in motion — about to leave the small cavern for where the tunnel continued on the other side, where it would funnel them into the much tighter passage. A most uninviting proposition.

"There's at least one more way out. We have to try to beat them to it."

"That's if the bastards haven't sealed off all other egress routes in advance," said Price.

"Did you come in through the bookcase?" Soap asked.

Nikolai now wore a matching scowl. "I don't know of any bookcase, but there is another hidden entrance where our men are waiting. If they don't hear from us soon, they're coming in."

"Right, so hopefully more than one other exit to reach before the bad guys," said MacTavish. The walls were literally closing in around them as they entered the tunnel, the torchlight's glow making them seem tighter still.

"Maybe we run into them," suggested Arytom, sounding hopeful.

"That should go well," said Soap. "Since we're unarmed."

"That's what they think." A humorless smile animated Arytom's sharp features; the dim bluish torchlight and his black beanie making the wiry, dark-haired man's face look like a white mask, washing the color out of his pale eyes. A black-and-white checkered shemagh was looped around his neck. A pang of recognition struck Price; Arytom had been one of the masked Russians who'd lifted Soap out of the helicopter. The one who'd tugged on Price's sleeve. He knelt to draw a small pistol from an ankle holster, yanking the slide. "We're not dying down here."

They all fell silent as the tunnel amplified the sharp _click-clack_. It would do the same to their every word and move. As Nikolai produced his own small concealed pistol, Price lowered his voice to a whisper. "In that case, lead the way."

* * *

"A few days later, when I was feeling stronger, the tribe's chief came to see me. He asked me why I hadn't gone with them. I said the first thing that came into my head: 'Because they have no honor.'

"That seemed to impress him." Vadim rolled his eyes. "I congratulated myself on my cleverness. Though I'd killed Rhino simply out of self-preservation, the chief told me he was indebted to me for saving his life. That he was poor and had nothing else to give me, and would I please accept this gift? Confused, I said yes too quickly.

"He called a girl into the room. My age, maybe a year younger. His daughter-in-law, recently widowed. He assured me that she'd been untouched during the raid, and said he had no brothers left for her to marry. Then I realized what he meant.

"He explained that this was almost unheard of, especially with a foreigner. Others would not approve, but he would deal with them. He was fond of her, and didn't want to see her suffer without a husband. By rights, her children were his if he chose, but he couldn't afford to take care of them. I was stunned. What could I say?"

Vadim scoffed. "He didn't seem to have trouble affording weapons. Since she wasn't a virgin, and widows are considered bad luck, no one else would have her. If I'd refused, she and her twin sons — just babies — would have been doomed to poverty. Yet she wanted very little to do with me. Then I found out how her husband had died. Beneath Kozlov's tank. "

"It's a wonder she didn't kill you in your sleep." Kamarov was running out of patience. Nikolai and Arytom should have been back by now. Where the hell were they? If this took much longer, their backup plan would go into effect. He didn't want things to go that way, and this group would like it far less.

Vadim chuckled wryly. "She later admitted she'd thought about it. For a while, I wasn't sure who got the better end of the deal.

"Trust … must be earned. It came with time, along with something I thought I'd never have. Beneath that veil lived someone stronger and braver — and more beautiful — than I could have imagined. And where else could I go? I'd killed a fellow soldier, deserted my unit. The only welcome I'd get from my own kind was a bullet to the back of my head. So I began to learn the tribe's customs, their language. The more I learned, the more I forgot myself."

"Including whose side you were on?" Vadim's eyes gleamed back at him in the half-light like chips of obsidian. "Merely an observation, my friend" Kamarov corrected hastily. "I'm no more welcome in Russia than you are."

Vadim's bushy dark eyebrows shot up, shifting the maze of wrinkles on his wizened forehead. "Is that right? Hmm." He nodded. "Fair enough. And so, the deadline for Soviet withdrawal approached. If they cared to, they could have sent in aircraft and ended us. But they still had greater concerns elsewhere. My old unit keep probing us; the game of cat and mouse continued. I knew the Army's tactics, the tribe knew the land. But my former comrades still had one card left to play."

This was starting to sound familiar. Yes, it was definitely time they were going. Kamarov's gaze fell to the bitter dregs in his empty teacup.

* * *

Price's hand slid through some slick, invisible moisture, then back over frigid rough stone. He felt Soap's grip tighten on his shoulder, probably for the same reason.

With its support beams like ribs, its floor sloping gently downward, the tunnel had looked like they were descending into the gullet of some leviathan. Right before the lights went out. Trying not to announce their presence, the Russians had clicked off their torches. Now the group moved, single file, in total darkness, trying to listen past the sound of their own breathing and footsteps. Except for the leader, Arytom, each had a firm grip on the clothing of the man in front of him while using his left hand to guide himself along the tunnel wall. They couldn't see a damned thing. Yet they had to hurry.

More cold slime on the wall. Price shuddered. His boots splashed through a puddle, chilly water finding its way in. _The next time I'm stuck underground, it bloody well better be six feet past giving a damn._ In the past two weeks, after the gulag, Site Hotel Bravo, Kamarov's bunker and now this, he'd spent far too much time on the wrong side of the grass. _But if we don't get to the remaining exits before they do, we'll all be pushing up daisies._

The narrow tunnel offered almost no cover. Their enemies had to only be patient, then open fire. Except for Nikolai and Arytom's pistols, they were defenseless. There was an even worse potential scenario here; if he'd learnt anything from his time as a soldier, it was man's capacity for evil. Confronting their enemies unarmed was preferable to being trapped underground — buried alive.

As the group moved steadily forward, his eyes detected a slight grayness, becoming more certain with each step. There was light up ahead somewhere.

They came round a curve to meet the light source, the crunch of their footfalls sounding almost thunderous. Price clenched his teeth; exposure was unavoidable. Signaling the rest to hang back, Arytom and Nikolai crept forward, their pistols leading the way. Behind them, the remaining shadows melded themselves against the wall for a few moments, until receiving the all-clear. The light source turned out to be tiny LED ceiling lamps here and there, providing dim, bluish interruptions to the blackest of shadow. So far, so good though. No one to greet them.

MacTavish squeezed Price's shoulder again, pointing out the evenly spaced yellow boxes with fishbone antennas strung along the tunnel ceiling, following the looping line of wires and conduit. Price nodded. These blokes had TTE comms — quite handy for the odd underground ambush. It wasn't too hard to work out who 'they' were, considering whom Kamarov had just done business with. The same ones in the gas masks who'd drugged them and dispatched Mike. Vadim's boys, possibly featuring the man himself. It had all been too clever not to be. The bastard had played them all like a fiddle. Maybe that was who'd been standing in the shadows, waiting for the Russians to be distracted with him and Soap before abandoning them. Who could now be waiting in the darkness with IR torches and night vision, eager to wrap this up so they could move on to their next kidnap and ransom.

Considering this possibility was unpleasant enough, until Price suddenly remembered the voice he'd heard when he was still out of it, now realizing whose it was. The missing piece of the puzzle. Vadim, his words clicking into place with terrible clarity:

_You're not the one I'm looking for. You never were._

* * *

**x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x**

* * *

_**Afghanets [афганец]** _ _\- (pl._ _**Afghantsy [** _ _**афганцы]** _ _) An 'Afghan'; a veteran of the Soviet-Afghan war_

_**Britansy [британцы]** _ _\- Britons_

_**Chainik [чайник]** _ _\- a prison bully, lit. 'teapot'_

_**Dedovshchina [дедовщина]** _ _\- Hazing; lit. 'The rule of the grandfathers'_

_**Dedy [деды]** _ _\- 'grandfathers' - senior Russian Army conscripts nearing the end of their required service_

_**Hypnos –** _ _Fictitious name referring to a real-life chemical agent that was used by Russian Spetsnaz, with tragic results. The Greek god of sleep, brother to Thanatos._

_**Kishlak [кишлак]** _ _\- Afghan village_

**_Stuy [_ ** _**стой** _ **_] –_ ** _Stop, halt_

_**TTE**_ _\- Through the Earth; ultra low-frequency radio used in caving and mining_

_**Yebat [** _ _**ебать]** _ _\- fuck_


	27. Badal, Part 2

Despite the coolness of the underground chamber, Kamarov could feel himself starting to sweat.

Vadim was about to tell him a tale he'd rather not revisit. More importantly, they were very close to going to Plan B. It was the last thing he wanted, and at this point, almost inevitable. If this was going to remain a mere ransom payment, he'd better have his package in the next few minutes.

A radio squawked from the corridor. "Ah - here they are." As Vadim stepped out through the doorway for a look, Kamarov could hear mumbling. Most of the words were unintelligible, but the voice was unmistakably Price's. "Like I said, the drug tends to outlast the antidote," Vadim called back to him. "A little help, please."

Kamarov strode to the door. About damn time. They could maneuver Price and MacTavish into the chairs until they could be revived further. He and Nikolai would deal with that, while Arytom would get word to his men on the surface as quickly as possible. He pushed past Vadim, into the corridor—

—Vadim's son Mirwais looked back at them, alone, coldly illuminated by the phone in his hand.

A lightning-fast blow rocked Kamarov back on his heels, leaving him doubled over, gasping. As Vadim recoiled for another punch, Kamarov's hands came up - too slowly, his ears registering the sound too late: the faint ring of steel. Vadim's upward thrust bit deep, the sharp jolt of pain bringing terrible recognition with it.

Grabbing handfuls of fabric and flesh, Kamarov grappled with the smaller man. But Vadim was remarkably strong, using the tight passage to keep him pinned against the wall, in an embrace as intimate as a lover. Vadim's face was inches from his own, his expression impassive. Driving the blade up harder, twisting it.

Breath hissing through gritted teeth, Kamarov's right hand closed over Vadim's fist, but it slid over wet skin, failing to get a good grip. The blade burrowed its way in even more, a vein springing up in tortuous relief on Vadim's temple. Kamarov's trapped left hand found the hollow of his enemy's throat, two fingers digging in deep. Vadim gagged and faltered; Kamarov smashed his forehead into his nose. The knife digging red agony inside him, he cracked his elbow into Vadim's face and clamped a hand over his throat, bouncing his head off solid rock. The knife clattered away. They shoved and clawed at one another, Kamarov grabbing hold of his stunned enemy's jacket. Pushing and pulling, they stumbled back into the chamber, Mirwais rushing in after them, unslinging his AK-74. They crashed into the chairs, whirling momentum tearing them apart, slamming Kamarov against the back wall. Vadim flew over backwards, landing hard against the edge of the desk.

While Vadim picked himself off the ground, Kamarov's hand dove into his pocket for the pistol. Rolling over onto his back, he began firing wildly at the two men charging at him — three quick suppressed clicks, a shower of white sparks. They reached him just as the lights flickered out.

* * *

Feeling their way along in absolute darkness, the line of men stopped. Price soon found himself turning left, his hand traveling over a corner brace. He'd wondered about that. They had no idea how big this place was, or where they were even going. Just that they had to find an exit while there still was one. Time was running out, and they were far likely to run into Vadim's men again before they found it.

They moved along for about five or ten minutes. With some whispering, a torch clicked on, the man's hand blocking most of the light. Just enough to make out the shape of a riveted steel door in front of them. It was locked, the handle not turning. They'd come to a dead end.

Frustration rippled through the group. Price regretted keeping it from them, his memory of what Vadim had said. Not even Soap knew. But now was not the time. Noise discipline aside, the distraction was the last thing Kamarov's men needed. Staying focused and switched on was vital to staying alive, especially with their new change in mission. He sighed. He knew he wasn't the only one thinking it:

_Oh Kamarov, what have you gotten yourself into now?_

* * *

In Afghanistan, first you built the walls, then you built the house. The cave's main entrance was disguised to look like one. Tall walls surrounded a timber and stone dwelling. Except with its fortified gates and cage surrounding a car-sized generator, it didn't look like the average home. But in order to make that observation, one had to get past the less-than-average gates and wall that led up here in the first place.

Two SUVs sat out front. Each had been driven by one of Vadim's men after blindfolding their Loyalist passengers. They would be returning them to the rendezvous point after the business between their leaders was concluded.

Alexei, known to his teammates as  _Rogatka_ or slingshot, understood why Kamarov had insisted on this, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

On his orders, Rogatka and his partner Piotr had been assigned to wait here, and to produce the final payment. Kamarov had doubtlessly broken the news to Vadim about it by now. Since the money was stashed back at the RV, it would provide extra motivation for their hosts to return them safely, if all went well. Except for one problem: it was getting rather late. Digging into the pocket of his green Russian Army jacket, Rogatka offered a cigarette to Vadim's two men. Both declined. Shrugging, he lit one up.

There'd been little conversation. Vadim's two Afghans spoke no Russian. Rogatka pretended he didn't speak their language either, hoping they'd get careless. However, the two had kept their own conversation to a minimum. They'd all stood around awkwardly, trying to appear both tough and nonchalant, sneaking looks at one another while showing a new appreciation for the local wildlife, which there hadn't been much of.

Blowing out smoke and looking at his watch, he shared a look with Piotr with a quirk of his eyebrows. Yes, terribly late. They turned away from each other, seeming to accept this new inconvenience. Each slowly took a step away from Vadim's men, then another. His cigarette pinched between his thumb and middle finger, Rogatka took a drag. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that one of them was suddenly alert — suspicious. As fond as he was of Kamarov, this hadn't been one of his better ideas.

The Afghans' heads burst open in a pink spray, their bodies dropping to the ground. The muffled, almost simultaneous crack of two rifles followed a split second later.

" _Ah_!" Piotr slapped a hand to his neck as if bitten, then took it away to look at it. Wiping it on his jeans, he tried again, probing the area carefully.

Blowing out his smoke, Rogatka regarded the blood-spattered pakol hat that had just landed at his feet. He tossed the cigarette down next to it and ground it out.

Piotr picked at his skin, freeing the source of his irritation — a small sliver of bone. "Could you have waited just one more second?" Shaking the gore from his hand, he turned to scowl at the cliff about 150 meters behind them. "Fucking disgusting!"

At the edge of the cliff, the brush shook, and grew an arm. It waved at them.

Rogatka couldn't blame them for being eager to get this over with. He waved back, turning to join Piotr in a search of the vehicles. Neither gave the bodies, with their ruined faces, a second look.

Human forms of the same color emerged from the brush. At the top of the cliff, Kamarov's two snipers slung their weapons and shouldered their backpacks. While one began to hurry down the path, the other pulled out a sat phone and began punching the keypad.

* * *

A body slammed into Kamarov, then another, invisible hands tearing at him. He flailed blindly as the blows rained down — into his face, white stars exploding in his head. Smashing his hand against rock, wrenching the pistol from it. Into his wounded abdomen, tearing a scream out of him. With a metallic rattle, a beam of light sprung forth and found him in the dark. A weapon light.

" _Na! Na!"_ Vadim bellowed, shoving the rifle aside. A heated argument began in Pashto, though the angry gestures of the two silhouettes indicated that Kamarov was not to be shot and killed outright, at least not by Mirwais. Another small torch clicked on, training itself on Vadim this time. His son knelt to examine his lower left side, lifting away the edge of his jacket. His shirt beneath was soaked with a circle of red.

Kamarov tried to push himself up with his good hand, the attempt nearly making him cry out again. Sitting back against the wall, he cradled his injured one against himself, shocks of pain shooting up his broken fingers as they brushed against his stomach, his own shirt warm and wet.

By torchlight, Mirwais rummaged through the shelves. With a couple of clicks, the flame of a kerosene lantern leapt to life. Placing it on the desk next to Kamarov's pistol, he turned it up, setting the room aglow with soft yellow light. He pulled what looked like a tea towel from one of the boxes. Folding it, he pressed it to his father's bullet wound. " _Ah_ ," Vadim grimaced. He took the maroon-and-white striped scarf from around his neck to attend to his bloody nose.

It was soon also clear that the towel wasn't going to be a long-term solution, and that the son's concern was being brushed aside. He was being dismissed, with urgency and under great protest. For what purpose, only they knew. Vadim, his voice tense and insistent, pointed toward the doorway. Mirwais reluctantly departed, but not before stopping to retrieve the fallen knife, receiving a steely-eyed look as thanks for his apparent gesture of defiance.

"The tribesmen have a saying." Examining his nosebleed's progress on the scarf before setting it down, Vadim leaned back against the desk, catching his breath. "If your revenge takes a hundred years, it's because you hurried." His eyes narrowed. "But I am not a patient man."

He'd done an expert job, knew his business with a blade — no matter what Kamarov did, the hot trickle kept spilling out between his injured fingers. He groaned behind teeth clenched with anger, mostly at himself. He'd done a lot of stupid things in his life, making enemies along the way, but this… The pain was a spreading fire, worsening from his futile attempts to staunch the flow from multiple wounds.

"Ah, yes." With a knowing nod, Vadim wiped the fixed-blade knife on his trousers, sheathed it. As if the entire incident had been just a temporary disruption to their fireside chat. "Belly wounds, they're some of the worst. It's the blood … well, among other things." He glanced down at his own injury, momentarily lifting his hand for a look. The towel was nearly soaked through, its floral print disappearing. "A terrible irritant, when it goes where it doesn't belong."

He picked up the stubby little PSS from the desk, chuckling. "You came in peace. Supposedly unarmed," he scoffed. "Yet carrying an assassin's weapon." He leveled the pistol at Kamarov. "I could end this now. Make it quick. But it didn't end quickly for her, did it?"

"W-who?"

Vadim's mouth tightened, until the words burst forth.

"My wife."

* * *

Once again, they'd come to a crossroads. The choice made here could mean the difference between life and death.

So could wasting time on indecision. It was left or forward. Forward was as good a direction as any.

A series of thundering booms shook the tunnel. Price whirled round toward the dim light at their backs, its strobing effect making the rapid movement of the surrounding human shadows seem slow and jittery. Lightning-like flickers revealed silhouettes clinging to the walls, alarmed and defenseless. He could just make out the forms of Nikolai and Arytom, their pistols up, advancing in the direction they previously hadn't chosen.

The flickering grew brighter in time to the loud cracks - there was no rhythm to it at all, coming in quick clusters,  _rat-a-tat-tat_. For a moment, Price half-wondered if it was electrical, until the telltale smell of burnt gunpowder stung his nostrils. Rounding a bend, they all startled at a piercing shriek, suddenly deafened as they threw their hands up to shield their eyes, dazzled by a sudden burst of brilliant sparks and stars. The tunnel was ablaze with fireworks.

A spark burst next to Price's head, rock fragments stinging his face. "Get down!" He shouted, barely audible, and they all hit the ground, cowering against the wall. Some of the cracks  _were_  gunfire - the sum of their fears. Unarmed, without cover, they'd be mown down like grass.

A shadow sprung up on the wall, animated by the flickering blue-white flashes, growing larger as it rushed toward them, coalescing into a figure in Afghan dress. At a full run, the man's rifle came up as they surprised one another.

Arytom and Nikolai fired at the same time, over and over, the man's body jerking wildly before he stumbled forward, sprawling onto his face. Wheezing, he struggled to get up, reaching for his rifle. Price kicked it away. They all fell on him, immobilizing him with knees and booted feet. Arytom handed the fallen AK to Soap, who brought it up toward whomever else was coming. Nikolai joined him with his pistol. Price and Arytom searched the wounded man, freeing him of a knife, torches, his mobile and radio.

The flashes and noise were fading, replaced by beams of torchlight and voices calling out to one another and issuing threats — in Russian. Arytom and Nikolai called back at them, waving their arms, their shouts growing frantic, trying to stop a blue-on-blue. Light flared at them through the swirling smoke, the tone of the conversation changing to relief before switching to English.

Torchlight fell on the smoldering stub of a cardboard rod that had been tossed to the ground. "Sometimes the old ways are best, my friend," Nikolai said, referring to the Soviet Army practice of flushing out Afghan cave networks with something akin to Roman candles. Simple and very effective, the targets often found cowering in a fetal position with their hands clamped over their ears. Price's own ears whined in protest. Everyone was deaf and loud at this point. " _Da_  … yes, they're right here."

"They'd better be worth it," a heavily accented voice growled. Their saviors turned out to be two more of Kamarov's Loyalists. Piotr, a compact dark-haired bearded man in his thirties, immediately took up a defensive position alongside Soap. The voice belonged to Rogatka, a large, sandy-haired, balding, slightly paunchy Afghan war veteran. His close-set blue eyes squinted at Price before focusing on their wounded captive, now lying on his back. Having served alongside Kamarov in the Soviet Army, this one had seen plenty of dramas. Although from what Price had heard, he created a fair amount of his own.

Soap ignored him, sounding almost cheerful. "Oi Price, will you look who it is."

Examining the confiscated cave radio, Price glanced down with a pang of even colder recognition. One of Vadim's boys, all right. The very one who'd knocked him unconscious with his rifle butt, and once he'd woken up, slapped him in face. "Well if it isn't Bil… " He murmured, more focused on the task at hand. These cave radios often came with a built-in locator beacon, which needed to be disabled, sharpish. "Bil - something."

"Billy big bollocks."

" _Heh_  - close enough."

He removed the radio's battery while Bilal glowered at him, the recognition clearly mutual. The wounded man struggled, coughing, trying to sit. "Don't trouble yourself mate, no need to get up." Price planted a foot on his heaving chest, which had just been ventilated by Nikolai and Arytom. Several other oozing holes reddened his clothing. Even if they'd ever had any intention of taking him prisoner, old Bilal was about to become a landowner.

What he assumed were curses bubbled up at him through a mouthful of blood. "Believe me, the pleasure's all mine." Price reached down to pluck the NVGs from Bilal's head. "Won't be needing these, then. What's that?" The response was even wetter and angrier, flecks of blood beading up on Bilal's thick black beard. Price nodded, eyeing the AK-103 they'd taken from him, with its modern plastic furniture, holographic sight, light and laser. "Can't say as I blame you. All this gucci kit and no body armor? I'd be severely pissed off, myself." His voice trailed off, they hadn't time for this shit. "Overconfident bastards," he muttered. "At least one of you lads speaks Pashto. Ask him how many." He reached out to Nikolai, curling his fingers in a come-hither motion. "Soap, let's go see what that room's all about."

"While Rogatka and Arytom … have conversation," Nikolai said, handing Price the keys. Swinging his new rifle downward to avoid crossing the Loyalists, MacTavish raised an eyebrow at that. "Hurry."

As they left the scene, Price glanced back over his shoulder at the two Russians hovering over the injured Afghan, who continued to spew increasingly weak and watery invective at them. "Right." He doubted Rogatka would get far with his curt questioning. Bilal doubtless knew he was dying. They hadn't much leverage here, other than to offer him one more bullet. "Keep it quiet."

* * *

In the pitch dark, it had felt like forever. With torches now in hand, the trip back down to the isolated room didn't take long at all. A gurgling scream erupted behind them. Price's exasperated sigh ended in a  _fuck's sake_. "Had enough breath left for that, at least."

"Good thing he's on  _our_  side," said Soap.

Price wasn't sure if he meant Arytom, with his pale, expressionless killer's eyes, or the grizzled old hulk Rogotka, aptly nicknamed after a tank. "Which one?"

"Either of 'em."

The key fit. "Now to see if this diversion was worth the precious time." They couldn't expect to take on Vadim's lot like this.

The heavy door slowly groaned open. Price's heart almost leapt out of his chest — their suspicions as to this room's dead-end location had been correct. It was piled with crates of their favorite sort. Wood with rope handles, olive green plastic and steel, their stenciled labels mostly in Russian, even a few in English.

He cracked open one of the long green plastic cases and smiled at what lay nestled in the black foam liner within: a shiny new AK-103 like the one Bilal had been carrying. Price picked it up and pulled the handle back for a look inside the chamber. Clean, lubricated, ready to go. "Don't know about you mate, but I'm feeling better already."

Holstering his pistol, Nikolai reached for one of the small torches sitting on a shelf next to a couple sets of NVGs. He nodded at Price, confirming they were IR, and handed one over. Soap had one of the best finds of all - he stepped over to Price with a fistful of loaded AK magazines. A critical timesaver. "Aye. Christmas came early." They each tipped one in and yanked a round home, the mechanical chatter like music. "Let's go give 'em the good news."

* * *

"…I don't know what you're talking about." Kamarov panted, the pain leaving him nearly breathless.

"Maybe you choose not to remember. But I remember you, my friend. I never forget a face. The ginger boy who looked barely old enough to shave, let alone be there."

Kamarov shook his head, more in disbelief than denial.

"Oh yes," Vadim said, ending the debate. "What had happened couldn't go unanswered. That was never in question.  _Your_  unit was assigned to come back and deliver the message. And deliver it, you did. I heard it was quite a fight. I missed the whole thing, I'm afraid. I still wasn't totally back on my feet, so I was left behind to guard the women and children. The tribe thought they'd chased you out — again." He bowed his head, with a wry twist of his mouth. "But that was just a diversion, wasn't it? Did you stay behind to see what would happen?"

"No…"

"Coward," Vadim spat, then composed himself. "It had been a long wait, until finally we could let them out of hiding. Some time after that, I heard screams. Several of the women, five children were on the ground. A couple were still twitching and choking." He swallowed. "She was lying not far from the well. Her face was gray, foam dribbling out of her mouth. Eyes wide, staring in surprise. As if she'd realized, in her last moments, what had been done to her. Her two babies, who'd just begun to walk, were standing next to her, crying. When they saw me, they ran to me, clung to my legs." His voice wavered. "She'd begun to go cold. The bucket of water she'd been carrying lay spilled into the dirt nearby. I didn't have to look much further to find the empty canister with the Russian warning label."

The words pierced Kamarov almost as much as the knife had. "I wasn't the one, I swear."

"Oh." The bushy black eyebrows quirked sarcastically. "A mere  _bystander_  to atrocity — "

"I didn't see it."

"But you knew. You  _knew_. I watched you all leave, to be sure when it was safe. You kept looking back."

Kamarov closed his eyes for a moment, nodded. He hadn't seen the act, that much was true. As for the results, the memory would never leave him. A far slower poison, driving him toward the solace of his own destruction, not caring who he took with him. In the not-too-distant past, that included members of the British 22nd SAS — and a young Lieutenant Price. "It was too late, I couldn't stop it. It was already done."

"So I should show you mercy then?" Vadim ejected the pistol's magazine, thumbing the bullets out, one by one, into his palm. "Failure to act can be a crime in itself." He stuffed the clicking handful into his jacket pocket, pushing the empty magazine back into place. He set the gun back on the desk.

"There's still one in the chamber. Unless you're too much of a coward for that too." He stood, turning down the lantern's flame. The dark closed in like a flood of ink pooling in the hollows of his face, his pitiless expression melting away into deep black.

 _Click._  Kamarov blinked, suddenly blinded. The torch's beam traveled down to the sodden red cloth beneath his trembling hand, blood welling between broken, mangled fingers.

"I'll let you decide."

The light dropped and turned. Its weak halo on the cave ceiling faded along with Vadim's footsteps, until Kamarov was left with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and a pistol that lay somewhere beyond him in the darkness.

* * *

Now properly tooled up, Price, MacTavish and Nikolai hurried back to the intersection, where the rest of group was waiting. Bilal lay at their feet, considerably less talkative than before. Rogatka crouched down next to him, his already prominent brow ridge looking positively Cro-Magnon.  _This must be his disgusted face,_ MacTavish thought.  _He could be Mike's Russian dad._  His trouser pocket began to vibrate. Surprised, he pulled out Bilal's buzzing mobile. In the heat of the moment he'd forgotten about it, since in this environment it wasn't much of a threat. Hell, he'd even forgotten about feeling shite. Good old adrenalin and a well-stocked weapons cache tended to have that effect. He showed the screen full of arabic characters to Rogatka.

"Marjan," he said, translating the chat message popup.

Soap cocked an eyebrow. "One of his kids."

"Asking where is everybody, why not answering."

"No signal down here," said MacTavish, studying the tiny icons on the mobile's screen. "Muppets have wifi, though. Probably sticking with text chat in order to keep things on the down low."

Price looked up at the cable running along the tunnel ceiling, where two boxes roughly the size of large textbooks were affixed. One plastic, one metal, tiny green and amber LEDs flickering away like mad. "A dab hand at wiring all sorts of things, Vadim. Or somebody in his group is."

MacTavish craned his neck to look at the stubby plastic and metal fishbone antennas protruding over his head. "Price, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

The Old Man  _humphed_  affirmatively, frowning down at the passcode-protected phone. "Give us a hand, will you?"

Rogatka picked up Bilal's hand, the limp index finger extended Sistine Chapel-style. Hoping against hope, MacTavish pressed it to the phone's fingerprint reader. The flare of light reflected in the man's eyes as the screen unlocked, prompting Soap to complete his thought. "We might want the battery back in that radio after all."

Price pulled the radio from his pocket, snapping the battery back into place. As soon as he'd powered it up, the mobile's bluetooth icon flashed and lit. The two were paired. "Too right we do."

MacTavish swiped his way through the mobile's apps. Though he couldn't read the labels, more than a few icons looked familiar. "Seems man's quest for games, porn and clickbait knows no boundaries."

"Give it here," said Rogatka, tired of watching him fumble. Soap handed it over. Both the mobile's screen and amusement lit the Russian's face; MacTavish decided he preferred the scowl instead. Rogatka turned the screen back toward them. It was a map, and the icons scattered over it were slowly moving.

Even Price smiled a bit at that. "Good call, son."

"Just a hunch," said MacTavish. It sounded humble enough. The irksome truth of it was, praise from the Old Man still left him all chuffed to buggery.

With their AKs tucked into their shoulders, they advanced up the corridor the Russians had come from, their shuffling gait momentarily interrupted to step over the bodies of two others, the Loyalists having relieved them of their gear as well.

"Between this lot and the ones Kamarov's lads slotted outside, that's five down," said MacTavish.

"Our luck  _is_ changing, then. Saving the best for last," said Price.

* * *

"Are you in position?" Marjan released his push-to-talk button.

Father had given the word; time to put an end to this. Finally, justice would be done.  _Badal,_ at last. Bilal's team would close in on Kamarov's men while Marjan's job was to flank them, cutting off the escape of anyone left. Mirwais would soon join him, once he and Father had concluded business with Kamarov himself. The sooner, the better.

Bilal should have radioed by now. "Team two, come in." Still no answer. Frowning, Marjan pulled out his smartphone. He didn't answer a Zello message either.

He opened the bluetooth app paired with his radio. The tunnel map flared to life in front of him, based on their wiring that acted both as transmitter and receiver. Only the main tunnels were wired for communications, rendering many areas dead zones. One couldn't blame Father for stopping there — it had been a lot of work, and he hadn't trusted anyone else to do it. It was a sore subject, so no one dared mention mine phones, though they'd heard how much better they were. Not everyone had smartphones, so they couldn't all use an app to communicate, and GPS wouldn't work down here anyway. But those that did could use the wireless network to 'find' the cave radios via their built-in locator beacons.

He could see three icons representing their radios — moving in the wrong direction, toward him. Had something happened? He decided to keep it neutral, they could at least key the radio as a response. "Somebody come in."

The radio crackled, like it wasn't getting a good signal. But based on their respective locations, it shouldn't have been a problem. He decided to take that as an answer.

Two of the icons blipped off his screen and disappeared. Out of the three, only Bilal's was moving toward him, until it stopped about ten meters away. Slipping the phone into his pocket and bringing his rifle up to his shoulder, Marjan crept forward, keeping to the shadows.

Following the curve in the tunnel, not knowing what lay beyond, his soft, rolling footsteps and breathing suddenly sounded very loud.

Bilal sat hunched over in an alcove, obscured by deep shadow except for the faint green flutter of a network access point overhead. His head was bowed in a pose of … dismay? Regret?

"What's wrong? What happened?" Rushing to him, he grasped him by the shoulder. Bilal toppled over into a heap, his body spilling into the weak illumination from a nearby ceiling light. Eyes fixed and staring, blood streaming from his mouth, his radio still clipped to his pocket, its tiny red light still blinking. "What the hell is going on?" Marjan sprang to his feet, reaching for his weapon.

A gun muzzle pressed into his temple. He froze.

An authoritative voice barked out a command. The words were in English, in a very strange accent, but he took their meaning well enough. He slowly raised his hands, looking sideways to meet the cool gaze at the other end of the rifle — the older British man with the graying beard.

His stomach dropped, sickening further at the sight of the voice's owner, also training a Kalashnikov on him. The other one with the strange haircut and the abdominal wound. Icy fear drained down his spine and into his groin. For a moment, he actually thought he might piss himself. Others materialized from the darkness of the adjacent tunnel. Five of them, all armed. All of whom should now be dead. Two had come in with Kamarov, the ones they'd taken down here to retrieve the captives. The two others he didn't know.

As they unclipped his rifle from its sling, taking his phone and radio, a big ugly blond Russian with full rubbery lips and a flattened nose wrapped an arm around Marjan's shoulder, replying in Pashto. "We were hoping you could tell us."

* * *

Mirwais had serious misgivings about leaving Father alone with the Russian, Kamarov. Not because he couldn't handle himself, of course. But he was hurt more badly than he was willing to admit.

 _That same stubbornness that kept you alive, it might kill you one day_ , a village elder had once remarked. Father had smiled, inclining his head, and graciously accepted another cup of tea.  _Perhaps._

Mirwais keyed his radio. "I'm on my way."

No answer. Not from Marjan, not from anyone.

He keyed it again, addressing all callsigns. Finally, he got a response of sorts. A few clicking bursts of static. They must have lost a repeater. Hopefully he'd have better luck once he was in range of the next one. They'd lost some of the lights too - the section of the tunnel before him ended in pitch black.

This whole thing had been a bad idea from the start. These weren't the local farmers and thugs they'd been used to dealing with. He'd tried to tell them, but as usual, he'd been overruled. Maybe now they wouldn't be so ready to dismiss his caution.

His radio locator light blipped. He was getting closer. Still nothing but static in response to his calls.

The bleeding wasn't what Mirwais would call mild. If the situation were under control down here in the tunnels, he could address it right here. At least patch Father up enough to sneak him off to the nearest clinic, which wasn't much, and wasn't near at all.

He pulled out his mobile, bringing up the tunnel map. Another locator beacon was approaching - his brother's. He sighed a silent thanks and pressed his push-to-talk. "Listen, I'll meet you out front," he said. "Father's worried our guests are getting bored. Hurry." Father never worried about anything. Nor was he ever in a hurry.

To be sure his brother got the message, he sent him a quick text, then turned in a rush back up the tunnel. Marjan would catch up. Time to get Father and get the hell out of here - better to ask forgiveness than permission. The two Russians waiting up by the trucks would be eating black dirt soon enough, if they weren't already. What was left of them would be fed to the dogs. There'd been some argument on who would have the honor.

The darkness he'd left behind waited … and came alive. A swarm of glowing green eyes blinked into existence, drifting in his wake, slowly following. One pair blinked out as Price swung his NVGs up and stepped into the light.

 

* * *

 

Their captive hadn't been too terribly compliant from the start, though they'd worked out he was Marjan. He'd remained sullen and silent, despite Rogatka having cuffed him a few times. Artyom had shrugged, and after duct-taping his hands behind his back, responded by slapping a bit across his mouth for good measure. A grim smile tugged at the corners of MacTavish's mouth. Ever practical, these lads.

They were practically on top of the other one now. Keeping their distance, they observed his retreat, until Arytom signaled the all-clear. They watched the blip on the smartphone map change direction, picking up speed. They made sure Marjan could see it. Rogatka's translation of the radio transmissions and Marjan's expression confirmed who it was.

Soap leaned in close to him. "Brother had a change of heart, did he?" A sideways glare was all he got in response.

"Good of him to lead us right to our quarry," said Price.

That was exactly what this numpty did, through several twists and turns of the tunnel system, until the corresponding icon on the map winked out. Other than a few crackles, there'd been nothing further over the radio or mobile.

"Not a word from Vadim on comms. Now they've gone dark. X-rays are onto us, mate," Soap whispered.

"In that case… " Price took a good look at the mobile map in Rogatka's hand. "Close enough." He nodded at the big Russian, who pocketed the phone, extinguishing its bright light. Then Price inclined his head toward the nearest set of antenna boxes mounted on the ceiling, and at Arytom, who reached up and started yanking cables until the LEDs went dead.

Hand signals flew. Guns up, the group advanced, blending into the darkness once again. Several weapons pointed at him and a few whispered words from Rogatka convinced Marjan to be herded along.

The ground was rising beneath them, a bluish glow in the distance. They had to be getting close to an exit. The tunnel narrowed until it became a bright white keyhole, lit by a single beam of sunlight from a crack in the ground above. At Price's upheld fist they halted a moment, listening. Nothing but birdsong from high above.

It was to be single-file now, like a cork in a bottle. Any bastard waiting on the other side of this tight passage could easily end them. Price waved a hand, patting the air, signaling them to wait.

Trying not to scrape the wall with his gun or gear, the Old Man eased his way forward, footfalls slow and nearly silent, the crevice so tight he had to turn sideways to slip through. Twisting the AK in its sling so it led the way, he stepped into daylight. Exposed, vulnerable. He glanced downward, something crunching loudly beneath his boot.  _Fuck me,_ Soap thought _._ _That might as well have been next to a microphone._ While everyone stood rooted in place, Price melted back into the shadows beyond, MacTavish's chest thumping in anticipation of drama.

When it didn't come, Price jerked his head at him. Soap stepped over some rock and began to follow, averting his gaze from the blinding sunlight, when he saw what had caught the Old Man's eye.

The grotto sparkled like a treasure trove beneath his feet, with hints of gold, silver, emerald and ruby. Tiny glittering electronic components, fragments of green circuit board - the shattered remains of the DSM, speckled with drops of fresh blood.

MacTavish heard Nikolai suck in an angry breath behind him. He hoped they had some sort of first aid kit, and that their plan involved a quick exfil. It was looking like they were going to need one.

_Just hold on, Kamarov._

 

* * *

 

 **Badal [Pashto]**  Revenge. One of the tenets of Pashtunwali, the Pashtun code of honor

 **Na [Pashto]**  No

 **Rogatka (** **рогатка** **)** "slingshot", Russian variant of the T72 tank


	28. Spin Ghar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At long last, and after many milestones, the story has come to an end. I can't properly express my thanks at the kind words and followers, and to my bestest beta,  Sassy Satsuma , in a writing journey that has literally crossed the world. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
> 
> Some of you have been following this series since its inception – almost seven years now. That's incredible, and I'm most grateful. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

 

 

The group's pace — their captive included — had quickened at the discovery of the blood trail. The Loyalists' desire to rush ahead hung heavy in the air. Their mentor and leader was in dire straits, that was almost certain. To their credit, they maintained their discipline and stealth. But with every droplet they saw glistening red in thin shafts of daylight, Price wasn't sure how much longer that would last.

A bowl-like cavern yawned out before them. Many rows of stalactites hung from the low curved ceiling like a shark's toothy maw. Some thin and new, some old and thick. Some met stalagmites rising up from the floor, forming a knobbly forest of limestone.

The group's breathing had quickened as well —

Unsure if he was imagining things, Price held up a fist. Everyone became as statues among the stone pillars, AKs at the low ready, listening.

He wasn't. His ears strained to pick up the sound. Ragged breathing. Nikolai began to step past him. Price grabbed his shoulder, shook his head. He signaled to the other anxious faces behind him.  _Steady on, lads. Not yet._

They crept slowly forward, taking advantage of this new concealment, getting eyes on-

Voices. Speaking Pashto.

Price's heart sank. The blood wasn't Kamarov's.

About 50 feet ahead on an incline overlooking this jagged garden, Vadim leaned against the cave wall, hunched over, his AK held loosely at his side. Daylight glowed from the passage just beyond, from what Price assumed was the exit.

It was his labored breathing they'd heard. His left arm was hooked round his side, just below the edge of his jacket, clutching some rag to himself that desperately needed wringing out. The dark stain on his shirt beneath had seeped halfway down the thigh of his trousers. The right side of his face was a puffed-up shiny red, with a weeping cut. Blood was still trickling from his swollen nose, crusting in his salt-and-pepper beard. Wasn't hard to work out who'd dealt him this.

Yet Kamarov was nowhere to be seen.

Had he escaped though the passage beyond? Was he waiting out in the warm sun, taking a pull on his flask, ready to take the piss out of them when they did finally turn up?

Mirwais was just ahead of them, weaving his way through the rough cave formations, rushing to his dad's aid. He shrugged his backpack from his shoulders, unzipping it on its way to the ground. Catching sight of the armed figures that had just materialized below, Vadim brought his rifle up. Alarmed, Mirwais whirled round, bringing his own AK-74 to bear—

Shouts erupted in three languages.

" _Brosit oruzhiye_!"

" _Wasla de paramzaka kegda_!"

"Drop it!" Price ordered. "It's over, Vadim."

"Is it?" Vadim made no move to do so, though his son's was the only weapon not pointed in their direction. Mirwais followed his father's lead, looking down his sights at them, his eyes darting everywhere.

"Aye, it is." Soap and Arytom emerged from behind one of the limestone columns, marching the captive Marjan in front of them at gunpoint.

" _Wadarega ya de wulim_ ," Arytom warned, tightening his grip on Marjan's neck and jabbing him in the ribs with his pistol.

"I don't think so," Vadim replied. Rogatka snorted derisively.

" _Drop_  your  _weapons_ ," Soap ordered. No one lowered their weapon.

Vadim ignored him, focusing on Arytom. "You'll do no such thing."

"You're barking mad," said Price.

A quirk of thick eyebrows. "Hardly the first to make that observation. You won't shoot, because I have what you're looking for. I know where he is."

"The bollocks on you." MacTavish shook his head. " _Unbelievable_." He scowled indignantly. "You came back for bloody  _seconds_?"

"A man's got to make a living. Should I have let that  _mudak_ have his way with you?"

"Well played, I'll give you that," said Price. "Where's Kamarov?"

Getting a good look at the jury, Vadim carefully considered his next words. Even so, the look that flitted across the bastard's face made the trigger creak beneath Price's finger. "He … took a bad turn."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Soap demanded.

"Took off in the wrong direction. " He winced, pain slowing his answer. "Like a horse … when the barn's on fire."

"The rest of your men are dead." MacTavish jerked his head at Marjan. "How many more, that's up to you."

"And I'm the only one who knows where he is. You want to find your friend, yes? Then I guess you'd better let my son go. Now." Vadim tried another tack. "He's running out of time, Price."

The bright red dot of Price's reticle ceased its wandering, settling over Vadim's forehead. "So are you."

"You're wasting what time he has left, arguing with me." He shrugged, still cool as a cucumber — Price's trigger finger tensed again. Not one nervous glance at the exit, not anywhere. He wasn't lying, not about this. "You just wasted another 30 seconds."

"He's right," said Rogatka, aiming his rifle at the back of Marjan's head. "We waste  _them_  and go get Kamarov."

"Hold!" Soap locked eyes with him.

"There are three ways you can go," said Vadim. "He doesn't have enough time left for you to choose the wrong one."

"Start talking, or  _I_  do 'im," said Soap.

"Then I definitely won't tell you. You'll hand over my son first, unharmed. We've already been acquainted, so I think you know not to test me."

Soap and Arytom frogmarched Marjan in Vadim's direction, stopping halfway. "This is as far as he goes. Let's hear it."

"How do we know you won't lie to us?" Price asked

"That's the beauty of it, you see," said Vadim. "You don't know. But can he afford your not taking that chance?"

"You keep saying that. How do you even know he's still alive?"

"For your boy's sake, he'd better be," said Piotr.

Marjan's shoulders heaved up and down, his mouth still a mute silver rectangle, forcing labored breaths through a sniffling nose. Arytom let go of him, slowly holstering his pistol while bringing his empty hand up to show his intentions. Stepping back behind their prisoner, he looked down at the lad's bound hands and flicked open his knife. That brought more unhappy looks his way - from the wrong side of the room. Vadim's face, however, made Price wish so badly that he could just shoot the smug right off it.

But Arytom made no move to cut the tape from Marjan's wrists. "So quiet," he remarked. "Too quiet. Like his father."

Rogatka took his cue, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "Okay." Winding a meaty arm round Marjan's neck, he smirked at Soap. "I hold."

"You know what mate," said Price. Rogatka was stroking a big paw over the lad's head to draw his hair back, like someone petting a dog too roughly. "I don't think these guys believe you."

Arytom dragged the tip of the blade over Marjan's forehead, tracing his hairline. Here came the bit where the oft-endearing Russian tendency to call one's bluff could backfire, and badly. "All this talk of time – you've wasted enough of ours. One way or the other, someone's going to start making some noise."

As Price had advised many a junior soldier, even the most zealous cunt with a C4 vest and a clacker in his hand still had the same Achilles' heel. "Well now this looks familiar, eh Soap?" he asked mildly.

MacTavish nodded, his cheek bulging over the top of his AK's stock. "Oh aye."

"Do it and we'll start shooting," said Vadim with a warning smile. "You'll finish it, of course."

"Not playing with much of a hand, are we?" Price asked.

"Three to one. With those odds, we'll be sure to drop the two of 'em first," said Soap.

The smile was hardening, the cracks appearing. "You'll lose more men and still be none the wiser."

"In that case, we should take what satisfaction we can get, yes?" Arytom began to trace again – slowly, ruby-red streaming forth while the lad screamed into the tape over his mouth.

Everyone tensed. The cavern echoed with rising shouts. "Fucking hell," Soap hissed.

"Let it … play out," said Price, with his head on a swivel and no slack left in his trigger.

Vadim's reddening face twisted with fury. " _Wadariga! STUY!_ "

Mirwais shouted at him in Pashto, clearly waiting for permission to fire – he was in good company there. Arytom's blade was already halfway across Marjan's forehead, tears trickling down his cheeks to dilute the streaks of red.

Artyom paused until the noise died down enough for him to get a word in. "Cutting off his face might not give me what I want. But it  _will_  make me feel better."

"He give it back when we're done," Rogatka reassured them.

"Stop this!" Vadim shouted, with the same expression Price imagined  _he'd_ worn when they'd held Soap down in the road and started cutting. Right before the rifle butt's sharp  _crack_ sent him spiraling into the ether. Icy pleasure furled his mouth at watching this cool cucumber transform into quite the sour pickle.

Just short of resuming his handiwork, Arytom's blade hovered over the lad's sweating forehead. He shrugged, knife in hand, in an oh-well gesture. "No?" He settled the point between Marjan's ribs. "Maybe a punctured lung instead?" He drew back his elbow, poised to push it through.

" _Kha! Korosho_ …" Lowering his rifle, Vadim sighed, hanging his head. He nodded at Mirwais, who set his down slowly. "Okay." Setting his down and sliding it away, Vadim grunted, his face crumpling as he slowly lowered himself to sit on the ground, cradling his wounded side. "Straight down there." He pointed at the tunnel he'd come from, encouraged that Arytom was no longer carving his son up. "When you hear water, keep to the right. I suggest you hurry."

"Now that wasn't so hard _,"_ said Price.  _Bit too easy actually._

"Sounds reasonable enough," said Soap. Piotr and Rogatka approached to retrieve the surrendered rifles, while MacTavish and Arytom kept their hold on Marjan. "Except for the bit where you could be pissing us about."

"I'm not – I told you where he is. Now let him go." Vadim had both arms wrapped around himself now, sitting hunched over with his knees drawn up. "…Please."

"That's the beauty of it – right, mate? You said so yourself."

"Too right. Maybe we should all go get him then," Price said.

"Oh  _really."_ Vadim rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Look at me. I'd slow you down, you know that."

" _Chyort s nim_ ," Nikolai snarled. Not a popular idea with the Russians either.

"Why are you still here? Here's some truth for you – it's going to take every man you have to get him out of there." Muttering went through the group of Loyalists. "Some of you have medical training, I hope? And supplies? Doesn't look that way."

He'd taken no notice of the unzipped backpack sat beside him. Some of its contents had spilled out, and now that Mirwais had stepped aside, were in full view.

" _He_  does," Price observed.

"Tell you what, this one's a bit of a mess, you can have him." Shoving Marjan forward, MacTavish swung his AK-103 toward Mirwais. "We'll take that one instead, as insurance."

"That is not an option," said Vadim, suddenly cool again.

"From where we're standing, doesn't look like you have too many," said Price, the hair prickling on the back of his neck at this change in demeanor.

"I only need one."

Price's eyes narrowed, his scope's red dot floating over Vadim's face. "Better show us those hands."

Vadim obeyed, lifting his hands away from his belly, a grenade clutched in his bloody fist. The pin was missing.

"You  _FU- "_

He flung his arm up, with the sound of metal pinging against rock. The shouts were simultaneous as everyone scattered, diving away from the olive green oval wobbling past their feet.

" _GRANATA!_ "

Price's hands were clamped over his ears, face to the wet ground, his heart in his throat. Every muscle tensed, his mouth open in anticipation of the blast. The confined space would amplify the pressure wave, which alone could burst their internal organs. Then there was the shrapnel that, if it didn't shred them outright, would bounce off the low cave ceiling, the blast releasing a torrent of rocky daggers that would rain down along with it.

This was going to hurt.

Five seconds had already passed. Ten. He peeked up from behind a toothy row of stalagmites, seeing others doing the same. The grenade, an M67 like the Americans used, sat in the depression where it had come to rest.

"Vadim!" Soap roared.

Arytom fired a burst of rounds at the retreating backs of the three men, stitching a string of dusty puffs along the cave wall.

Fifteen seconds.

He just missed Mirwais, who squeezed off a reply before disappearing into daylight. Everyone ducked back behind cover, the oncoming rounds buzzing past. The bastards had escaped. On top of it, the twat with the medic bag had taken it with him.

Twenty. Everyone was frozen in place, gun smoke coiling over their heads, knowing the grenade could still go off any moment.

Sour-faced, Rogatka got up. "Hold on!" Soap shouted, his concern reflected by Nikolai, who called out in Russian. Ignoring them, Rogatka strode over and reached for the grenade. "NO! DON'T!" Price cringed, everyone bracing for the worst. A blind, or dud, could still go off if moved.

Looking more disgusted than ever, Rogatka held it up, its end pointed in their direction.

"Let me guess — there's a hole drilled in the bottom, isn't there?" Price asked.

" _Da_."

"Shite. Of course he wouldn't have risked his kid," groaned Soap. Clearly, payment for the day's activity had begun. Price wasn't feeling it yet, but he would be soon enough. He helped MacTavish up while Piotr and Rogatka took off in pursuit. "There's one way to make an exit. They won't get far, though. They've already gassed us once. If we don't neutralize them now — "

"Forget about them. They've no reason to hang about, not with the state he's in. He's right about one thing. Either we waste time dealing with him, or… " Price paused at their sudden lack of company. Nikolai and Arytom had already made their choice, and were heading down the opposite tunnel, in Kamarov's direction.

* * *

There it was - a rushing sound, growing in volume as the tunnel dwindled and shrank from manmade to natural. As instructed, they stayed to the right. It soon became necessary to stoop low and step sideways down a fairly steep decline. Then they were crawling back up, the distant light becoming brighter and brighter, beginning to flicker. Exposing drops of blood on the ground, red smears along the narrow walls.

The rushing sound became a roar. The rough, rocky tube they were in opened up to a vast cavern, waves of light dancing on an arched ceiling that soared high above, a good hundred feet or so, like a natural cathedral. A waterfall plunged down through a crack in the Earth, forming rainbows in a curtain of mist. Sunbeams sliced through the darkness and the shallow pool below, making it glow a glacial blue-green. Vegetation grew where the light fell. Shrubbery, weeds and some small trees clung to the stones, reaching up toward life.

It was then they saw him.

On a small sunlit island, surrounded by tiered smaller pools, natural bowls of water carved into the gray limestone over dripping centuries. His body lay draped over an uneven sheet of rock, eyes fixed unblinking on the above. Motionless, faded, the purity of daylight washing him of almost all color except one.

Price somehow managed to reach him first. "Anton." The gray eyes blinked, and slowly turned to focus on the oncoming stampede splashing through the puddles. A tired smile.

"Hey." Taking a knee beside him, Price gripped Kamarov's shoulder, pretending not to notice the state of his clothing, a slick red from his chest to his thighs. He glanced down at the sensation of cold and wet. The water he'd knelt in was feathered with crimson, seeping into the fabric of his trousers. "Didn't we just do this a week ago?"

Kamarov's lips, almost as pale as the rest of his face, barely moved. "Told you, you're not that lucky."

"Hang tight, we're going to get you out of here."

They all crowded round, pulling and tearing away clothing, Nikolai and Arytom speaking Russian in casual tones that continued even at the sight of the two deep stab wounds in the center of Kamarov's abdomen, the blood welling nonstop. Though he didn't understand their words, Price recognized the good-natured ribbing meant to distract, along with the expressions and hurried movements that didn't match.

"Did you see him?" Kamarov asked, to the sound of tearing and crackling.

Soap glanced at Price. "Aye."

Kamarov gritted his teeth; Arytom was laying a thick field dressing over his wounds. "Is he dead?"

Price bowed his head for a moment. "No," he sighed. "Not yet." He couldn't bring himself to admit why.

" _Podozh—ahh!"_ Kamarov cried out in agony, the slight pressure of Arytom's hand causing a sudden gush of blood; his taut, distended belly had to be full of it. He grabbed a handful of Arytom's shirt. " _Pozhaluysta,"_ he whispered, his anguish reflected in Nikolai's expression. Price shot the Russian pilot a look, silently ordering him to hold it together. All the surrounding pools of water were tinted red. If the bastard had truly hit what he'd been digging for, it would have been a kindness. A flush of hot rage flooded Price. He should have killed Vadim when he had the chance.

"Don't look at him, mate. Look at me. Just breathe, Anton. Keep your knees up," said Soap. The lad knew very well what he was going through - he was still going through it. If it hadn't been for Kamarov, how very different that outcome would have been. "Nice job on his face, by the way. Is that what you hit him with?" Soap nodded at Kamarov's grossly swollen right hand, angry pink with a blush of purple, the first two fingers like misshapen sausages. Kamarov choked out a sobbing laugh, while Soap gave his shoulder a congratulatory pat. "Reckoned that was your work. An improvement, if you ask me."

Kamarov took some rapid, shallow breaths. "I got him, didn't I?"

" _Da_. You might yet kill him after all," said Arytom, ignoring the look Price gave him. If only. Unfortunately, Kamarov's aim hadn't been quite as true as Vadim's. But it was the only comfort they had to offer.

They had to jostle Kamarov a bit to push the long tails of the dressing beneath him, so they could pull them round to secure it in place. Arytom pulled them taut, applying more pressure. Kamarov stiffened, stifling a scream, eyes and mouth clamped tightly shut. " _Pozhaluysta, morfin … pozhaluysta,"_ he begged.

"Shh… " Arytom muttered what sounded like an apology. They had nothing to offer him except more pain. The bandage needed to be tighter; it was the only way to slow the bleeding. As Kamarov moaned, Nikolai took his hand, his fingers blanching white in Kamarov's grip. Finally, Arytom fastened the bandage in place.

"Right, it's over," said Price. After a few minutes, Kamarov settled back down, some of the color returning to Nikolai's fingertips. Taking his hand back, Nikolai gave Kamarov's arm an apologetic squeeze, offering a bit more reassurance in Russian.

Nikolai peeled off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt, which he removed and tore into strips with his knife. They hadn't much else to work with. He took one piece and made his way over to the pool, dunking it in the cold water and wringing it out.

"All right, we need to wrap that hand. It's not much, better than nothing." Price balled up the biggest piece of the cloth he could find, and lifted Kamarov's injured hand over it gently. "Grab onto this if you can." Hissing in pain, he wasn't able to move it much at all. Nikolai folded the wet strip into a cold compress, which he laid on top. They carefully wrapped the whole thing up with some of the remaining strips, while Kamarov groaned, biting back curses. "There." They laid the hand, now a ball of crisscrossed cotton, over his chest.

The dressing over his abdomen was filling with red.

"I'm sorry, Price," Kamarov gasped, his chin quivering.

"For what?"

"If it wasn't for you we'd be dead – more than once," said Soap.

"Beirut."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Price.

Kamarov managed a weak grin amid all the wincing. "I come to rescue you, but I'm the one that needs rescuing – again."

"You can buy me a pint later. Let's get you out of here first."

Kamarov hadn't stopped trembling since they'd begun tending his wounds. The corners of his mouth were looking dusky, with a faint bluish tinge. "C-cold."

"We're going to get you out of here, get you warm," said Price. While everyone draped their jackets over Kamarov, Nikolai and Arytom took turns sneaking anxious glances toward the entrance. Cold water dripped from Price's hair into his eyes. They were all damp from the waterfall's spray, covered in sparkling droplets and gooseflesh. "Help is on the way," he said. So where the hell was it?

Kamarov had gone quiet. Too quiet. "Hey," said Soap, jostling him. "You with us?"

" _Da,"_ he mumbled.

"Not good enough, mate. Now no dossing about. Open your eyes."

When Kamarov eventually complied, his gaze turned skyward, tracking some movement. Everyone looked up through a rocky portal fringed with weeds. A flock of birds fluttered overhead, flying in perfect sync with each other. Whirling and twisting, flashing silver, black, silver. A murmuration.

Soap huffed as they finally scattered and disappeared, leaving clear blue sky behind. "Quite a place you've got here."

Price recalled what Vadim had said, about going in the wrong direction. Despite the state he was in, Kamarov had managed to drag himself all the way down here. "About as far as you could get from the bloody exit— "

His chest tightened. Maybe that had been the whole point.

"Was afraid ... I'd never … see the sky again," said Kamarov. His eyes were getting heavy, each blink lasting a bit longer.

"Oh no you don't. Oi, Anton." MacTavish shook him; Nikolai's gentle slaps to his face brought him round. "What's the name of your surgeon, the tall bloke with the gray hair, the one who worked on me?" Soap asked.

"Pavel," he murmured drowsily.

"Pavel's going to sort you right out, mate. You'll be up and about and needing rescue again in no time."

Kamarov just smiled at that, though not unkindly. He knew the truth. There would be no helicopter to rush him away, no operating theatre waiting nearby. Not today. He reached for Price's hand. His was ice-cold.

"What has begun cannot be stopped, except from within. You know what I would ask of you."

Price barely recognized his own hoarse voice. "Yes."

Drained by the effort, Kamarov sighed, his eyes drifting shut.

"Hey!" Arytom shouted, waving at the figures emerging from the cavern entrance. Rogatka, Piotr and two others. One lad had a folding stretcher with him. " _Idi s'yuda!"_

Nikolai patted Kamarov's arm. "See? They're coming."

Another gentle, knowing smile. With difficulty, he opened his eyes again, began to speak. Price had to lean in close to hear him over the roar of the waterfall, his voice a halting whisper now. "He'd been waiting for this … waiting for years. In a way … so have I."

* * *

Price's grip loosened, his eyes following the soil spilling from his fingers.

A deep voice rose in a slow, mournful song. " _Vy zhertvoiu pali…"_

Rogatka's strong clear voice was oddly beautiful, encouraging a few of the men gathered on the steep hillside to join him. Soon, the dirge was soaring through the forest. The words felt strangely comforting to Price, though he didn't understand them. Nikolai would later tell him it was a song for the fallen, of past revolution. Fitting for a man Price never would have thought of as a new revolutionary.

He dug his fingers into the loose soil again, smelling damp earth. He stood in silence, holding his clenched fist aloft for a moment before letting go. The breeze was picking up, spreading the sifting dirt further and bringing with it new scents: pine trees, dry bark, old cigarette smoke in woolen clothing, distant cooking fires.

MacTavish, Nikolai, Arytom and the others all took their turns, their Afghan guides solemnly observing from a short distance. The rumble of dirt clods sounded duller with each handful, scattering dark upon the blanket-wrapped form huddled in the grave.

To Price, the growing pile of dirt on the body felt like the cement of his failures, every handful bringing to mind another name of a fallen teammate. His team in the vehicle disposal yard near Kandahar, Ghost's men in Azerbaijan. Gary's family had now been displaced by war - had they even had the opportunity to lay him to rest properly? Would they?

Bits of brass glinted in the loose earth, with the image of the two-headed eagle. Some of Kamarov's lads had thrown coins, to pay his way.

The shadows lengthened, the colors of the evening sky deepened. After the last shovelful was patted into place, stones were laid atop the mound and piled together to form a rudimentary headstone. After tying a long strip of cloth between tree branches set at the head and foot of the pile, the Afghans withdrew. One by one, Kamarov's men followed suit until only Price, MacTavish and Nikolai remained.

Price stopped his numb, robotic attempts to brush all the dirt from his gloves; some things would never wash. He instead focused on the faces across from him. MacTavish squatted next to Nikolai, close but maintaining a respectful distance. The Russian pilot's shoulders shook, his face buried in the crook of his arm. MacTavish's fingertips idly traced a stone's rough texture. His forehead was rumpled in disbelief, staring at the grave as if trying to divine some meaning from it.

The bottom end of the cloth snapped loose, forming a long ribbon, curling and twisting over the headstone.

Finally, Nikolai stood and scrubbed a hand across reddened eyes, sniffling. Price helped Soap up. The sun was setting, and the rest of the group awaited them at the nearby trailside.

They stood a moment longer, watching the banner flutter, listening to wind rushing through the trees and the river bubbling in the base of the hills, far out of sight. Price hoped that when own time came, he could come to lie in such a place. It was as if fortune had smiled on Kamarov once more.

_I guess I owe you one_ , Kamarov had said to him one night long ago, the night they'd fought their way up the hill to rescue Nikolai. Now Price had a debt of his own, with only one thing to offer in payment.

They began to walk away until Nikolai turned to survey the lonely gravesite overlooking the deep valley. Puffy clouds of fog were settling into its creases, surrounded by mountains ageless and endless. "He would have liked this. That's all he wanted, to go back home … to hunt and fish and walk in the woods again," said Nikolai.

The words caught in Price's aching throat. MacTavish's low voice spoke for him.

"He's home now."

* * *

The blue Toyota Hilux slowly jerked and splashed through deep ruts in the unpaved road, until coming to rest at what passed for a shoulder. With its dented uneven hide, oxidized paint and spots of rust, it looked like most of the vehicles in the small town, which was little more than a widening in the road. Its tinted windows were somewhat less commonplace. The one on the driver's side lowered a few inches, with an accompanying swell of tinny Pashtun music from the radio within. Pale fingers poked a cigarette butt through the opening. With a hiss, it dropped into the muddy water still swirling around the front tire and bobbed back to the surface to expose the gray Marlboro lettering. Smoke boiled out of the window to follow it.

Buzz lowered his own window a little, waving his hand to expel more of the smoke. Rev's sideways glance didn't escape his notice. Neither did the smile tugging at one corner of his mouth as he settled his M4 into his lap, the already short-barreled rifle's stock fully retracted to make it as short as possible. He pointed it toward his door and covered it up with the corner of his striped gray patou, which also hid the short cast on his left arm.

Buzz shifted in his seat, feeling the lump of the Glock wedged beneath his thigh, his own rifle jammed between his leg and the door, out of sight beneath his own shawl. It was still early enough that the locals would be busy with their morning chores, but if the pair overstayed their welcome, their presence would result in the usual stare-a-thon. He wasn't worried; they'd already found what they were looking for.

A group of children played in a nearby lot. It was rocky, uneven and choked with weeds, but that didn't prevent a soccer game. Over the course of his career, he'd seen countless kids just like them. Dusty and unkempt, with big hungry eyes. Still running barefoot on a cool morning like this, wearing threadbare mismatched clothing that western kids would turn up their noses at. Except the biggest boy was sporting a dark blue New York Yankees baseball cap and a rather unusual hooded jacket. It was huge on him, the sleeves hanging down over his hands.

Buzz watched Rev run his hand around the edge of his turban, checking for any stray wisps of the blond hair that he'd tucked underneath. Suppressing a smirk, he spat out a speck of dip, which was why he kept any complaints about his partner's filthy habit to himself. When he returned his attention to the kids, the gameplay had stopped due to some sort of dust-up. Big boy squared off and shoved one of the smaller ones, then stood there staring a challenge at him.  _Tough guy_. Buzz brought a monocular to his eye. The jacket was gray fleece. It looked fairly new, and with all its reinforcements and zippered styling, expensive. But its most interesting feature by far was the IR shoulder patches of the Union Jack.

Rev sighed. "So … how's your Dari?"

Buzz lowered his monocular, his eyes still on the arguing kids. "We're not going after them."

"What do we tell I-bad?"

"They escaped, didn't they?"

Rev gave Buzz a look harsh enough to pry his eyes away from the escalating brawl. "When all's said and done, we'll be lucky if they let us sling hash at the Langley cafeteria."

Buzz scoffed. "Always a glass-half-full kind of guy. Why do you think I let you ride along with a bum wing? If our buddy Price is correct, it'll be more like a reassignment, something really - " He gave Rev a knowing look. "- exotic."

Rev's mouth pressed into a thin line as he stared at the steering wheel's cracked vinyl. "I don't want to think about it. So what now?"

"We finish what we started." He sighed, shaking his head – the boys' argument had turned into a knock-down-drag-out. "I have a feeling this won't be the last we see of them."

Rev quirked an eyebrow and looked up at him. "Why not?"

"Remember that mess up in Azerbaijan a week ago? Bunch of Shepherd's taskforce dead, the charred bodies in the pit?"

"Yeah."

"Their two MIAs have been found."

Rev's other eyebrow came up. "Archer…and that other guy, what's his callsign…uh, heh - Toad."

Buzz nodded. "They're in rough shape, but they're alive."

* * *

Like countless others before them, a line of horses and donkeys plodded their way up the steep, rocky trail. Their riders were cloaked in dull earth tones, their heads bowed like their mounts. Through the years, this harsh terrain with its unforgiving weather had repeatedly demanded a human toll for its passage. Their path had risen above the tree line, leaving dense forest behind in exchange for a few stunted trees and patches of tangled brush.

Reaching the summit, two of the riders pulled their horses to a halt, the breath of both man and beast billowing vapor in the cold air. The vista before them was as beautiful as it was cruel, the massive peaks of the Hindu Kush looming before them like judgment. Spires of black rock with stark white patches of snow stabbed into a soft underbelly of gathering clouds.

The taller of the two men sat hunched over in his colorful embroidered saddle. Noticing this, Price pulled the shemagh from around his face, the breath of sharp cold making him even more grateful for the woolen warmth of the brown patou coiled around his shoulders and the mushroomlike pakol settled snugly over his head. He held out a gloved hand to the rider behind them, signaling that they wanted to rest for a moment. With a nod, the Afghan man called to the one behind him and rode ahead to alert the others.

Frowning, Price gave MacTavish a long look of appraisal. Wearing similar garb, with a shawl draped over his winter jacket, the lad had just pulled his own striped scarf from his face. Beneath the blotchy green and brown of healing bruises, he still looked a bit pale, though the thickening stubble along his jawline was gaining ground on some of the damage. It wouldn't be long before his beard caught up with Price's. MacTavish slid the hand cradling his belly to his back instead, attempting to straighten up and to relax the tension in his face. Price sighed, both what he saw and the weak attempt to conceal it. A day's rest had been all they could afford.

He glanced at the Afghans gathered just over the hill from them. Some had dismounted to stretch their legs, while others nodded in their direction, no doubt wondering what the problem was. He and Soap sat for a moment, staring into the gray void before them, the wind stirring their horses' tails, until Price broke the silence.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you it's not too late to change your mind."

Soap gave a low chuckle. "Except that's not quite true, is it? What's Nikolai's ETA?"

"Half an hour."

"I hope so." He gestured toward the snow squalls obscuring some of the distant mountaintops. "From the looks of things, if we don't get out of here soon, we're not going to." MacTavish shook his head, the beginnings of an incredulous smile tugging at his mouth. "I've never seen him like this."

"I have. You've only seen the business side. It's personal now."

"Looks like it's about to get personal for us. Whitehall's not going to back down, and the Russians aren't about to."

Price slowly nodded. "The gravity of the situation probably hasn't sunk in yet. Most people will be still be going through the motions, thinking that if they stick their heads far enough into the sand, somehow it will all blow over."

MacTavish stared past Price at the storm front closing in from behind them. "My parents have gotten the phone call by now, the official knock at the door. Probably half out of their minds with worry. Bad enough to be told their son is missing, but that he's also a fugitive … followed by the official monitoring of their phone calls, their comings and goings... " His jaw muscles rippled. "And on top of that, the threat of imminent war. My gran, she's still around - still a hundred percent with it, mind. She remembers the Blitz, Price. Can you imagine, living to see such times again?"

Price's mind wandered where it shouldn't, back to his own dingy flat in Hereford. He'd arranged for landscapers to tend the garden so the place wouldn't look abandoned. He halfway wondered if they were still actually doing it or just pocketing the money. The refrigerator was pathetic even by bachelor standards. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat in a bookcase overflowing with books and various dusty oddities he'd picked up in his travels. Money-wise, the whiskey was probably the most valuable item, yet all this sad old crap was suddenly precious to him. A picture frame held a few old photos from when he was in the Army, including the one with his parents after he'd completed basic training. Mum had at least worn a strained smile; his dad hadn't even attempted one.

She'd been gone a long time now.

"Only two ways home now: a cage or a box. You know I won't go back to prison, Soap. If that makes me a dead man walking, then I want my death to mean something. Kamarov's death should mean something."

"There needs to be a point to all this – the trail of bodies, all we've been through," said MacTavish quietly, working a snarl out of his horse's mane.

"Shepherd will lie in Arlington." Price's horse tossed its head. "There'll be no clock tower for us."

"But if we can help put a stop to what's coming, so that everyone at home can get back to bitching about the weather, their boring jobs and the football scores, then I'm all right with that."

Price shook his head at him with a sigh. "Still running with the wrong crowd, I see."

"Someone's got to keep you out of trouble, Old Man."

Price huffed, pressing his lips together, smoothing out the quirk forming in the corner of his mouth. His eyes drifted downward into the folds of cloth at his chest, to the reassuring weight of the 1911 in its holster. At least he still had a few things he could rely on. "Soap… "

MacTavish's attention had turned to the men waiting for them. He looked back at him, concerned.

It took Price a moment to find the words. "I… I'm glad you're here." That said, he urged his horse forward. " _Cho_ ," he said, clicking his tongue. "We'd best be going. LZ's just down the hill -"

"Price…" MacTavish hesitated in a struggle of his own.

Price brought his horse back around, hooves clopping on rock. "Well? Out with it," he demanded.

"If you make it and I don't – "

"Oh, come on - "

Soap's voice was firm, his blue eyes blazing in earnesty. "Promise me."

Price's smile warmed into one of gentle affection, knowing at once what he meant.

"I'll tell her."

* * *

  **END**  

* * *

 

**Brosit' oruzhiye (** **бросить оружие)**  Drop your weapons

**Cho [Dari]** 'giddyap'

**Chyort s nim (** **чёрт с ним** **)**  The hell with him

**Idi s'yuda (** **иди сюда** **)** Get over here

**Kha [Pashto]**  Okay

**Korosho (** **Хорошо** **)**  Okay

**Mudak (mудак)**  asshole

**Podozhdite (** **Подождите)** Wait

**Pozhaluysta (Пожалуйста)**  Please

**Spin Ghar [Pashto]**  'White Mountains'; mountain range separating Afghanistan and Pakistan

**Vy zhertvoiu pali (** **Вы жертвою пали)**   _"You Fell Victim"_ Russian funeral march written in 1878, sung for the fallen of various uprisings. Later sung at funerals of prominent Eastern Bloc Communist party members, and became part of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 11

**Wadarega ya de wulim** **[Pashto]**  Stop or I'll shoot

**Wasla de paramzaka kegda [Pashto]**  Drop your weapons


End file.
